The Case of the Devils Flower
by Emma Lynch
Summary: "Sherlock s playing in his lab, But, truth be told, he s feeling drab, A little break would be just fab, But look who s got him on his slab..." How do you manage a family in the midst of clues, crimes and arch-nemeses? Sherlock has to find a way. John and Sherlock leave their beloved London only to find themselves slap-bang in the middle of ... trouble. Holidays are so overrated.
1. Chapter 1

"Where there is no imagination there is no horror."

"The lowest and vilest alleys of London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

**Prologue: **

Bright lights above my head and I must squeeze shut gritty, sore eyes. Tiny tears have formed on my lashes and upon opening, I see dazzling, shimmering rainbows refracting through tiny, trembling droplets.

_So_ beautiful.

Behind my closed lids, dark is peaceful. Good. Silent.

Then the clattering starts inside my head. Like the chattering of Mycroft`s old Remington Streamliner when he types his dissertation. Always the diligent student -

Like tiny hammers in my ears…hammers of the gods…who was that? Odin? Nordic blacksmith hammering…typing with Mycroft.

For God`s sake!

Open my eyes and neon floods my sight…my face. Hazy corollas dazzling – I can feel my pupils shrink to pinpricks.

Thor! Hammering with Mjollnir…No! Damn it, you have the brain of a philosopher…a scientist…a genius?

Hephaestus…Blacksmith to the gods. Shoulda known that…no shit, Sherlock.

Hammering.

Can no-one hear it? Clattering; scattering; dropping a thousand marbles on a cobbled street. Molly, in shiny heels, high and golden.

God.

_I will burn the HEART…out…of … her…_

Shaking, now. Coldness creeps into my inside from the out.

_Why does anyone do anything? Because I'm bored. We were meant for each other, Sherlock. _

Icy, cold water. Soaking into me from my feet. Osmosis …soaking up…ankles. Litmus paper? Goose pimples … hairs standing straight up.

_Every fairy tale needs a good old fashioned villain._

Calves. Knees. Thighs…crystallising me…turning me to ice… The boy with the ice in his heart – Hans? From The Snow Queen.

Hammering – clattering – chattering…

Groaning – who can that be? The villain? With the ice in his heart?

Moriarty.

But not – NO! It won`t be; because I KNOW something about trees. About _families_…

_Big client list. Rogue governments. Intelligence communities. Terror cells. They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr Sex. _

"Put something between his teeth – they`re chattering so hard, he could bite his tongue…"

Burning hot hands touching my frozen skin … frozen to my chest…something in my mouth. The hammering stops. My tortured eyes squint tight against the light. Darkness is blocking it out. A shadow. A face.

"Sherlock – it`s ok. You have a raging fever…hang on, it`s going to be ok – take her out Mrs Hudson – look at me…"

_You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me._

Is that John? John H Watson. "One fixed point in a changing world…"

"What? Don`t try and speak – `specially if you`re getting soppy – you know how I feel about tha-"

And there was nothing more.

Twelve hours previously…

"The case was clear cut from the moment she bent down to pick up the pen."

Sherlock Holmes reaches across for the Persian slipper, remembers, then reaches in the drawer for a nicotine patch instead. To his credit, nary a sigh even passes his lips. Smoking is clearly, very ancient history.

John Watson, typing his account of the latest endeavours of the world`s only consulting detective, stops mid word. Head tilt.

"I am recalling some VERY low cut jeans, Sherlock."

"As am I."

Eyebrow raise. "Really?"

"Really. As Ms Anderton bent forward, her less than encompassing choice of clothing allowed me a detailed examination of her…tattoo. I believe the common parlance is `tramp stamp`."

"You _never_ cease to amaze me…"

"As you know, John, I have made a careful study of tattoos and their design. I believe I could identify any tattoo artist within a fifty mile radius of this great city. The artwork; choices of inks; little flourishes that distinguish one tattooist from another…you may wish to read my blog on the subject."

"Any day soon."

Micro-smile.

"I could recognise the mixture of magenta and crimson – a very particular and specific blend – used by Corbin Carfax at his studio, `The Ink Factory`. The cuboid design and gradations were a deciding factor. Her claim to have never met Carfax was immediately bogus. Her alibi ruined. Case closed."

John Watson resumes typing; smiling to himself as he does. Sherlock sits up, immediately alerted.

"You are doing it, aren't you?" Accusatory, almost.

"Doing what? I am _merely _adding to the … the _canon_ of your work."

Standing now, Sherlock pushes his dark curls away and leans over his blogger`s shoulder.

"I KNEW it! `The Case of the Red Square"! Sensationalism…"

"…brings in the clients…as you know."

"I don`t _know_, I…" Sherlock Holmes is cut off by a sudden bout of dry, hacking coughing. "I…" More coughing. Eyes, red-rimmed and watering.

John, his blogger _and_ doctor, shoots him a look - of concern. "You`re doing a lot of coughing recently, for a man who no longer smokes. Are you ok, Sherlock?"

Sherlock Holmes , intolerant of any weakness of body or mind, particularly in himself; waves away concern and wanders down the small flight of stairs towards Skylab, coughing intermittently.

John thinks he can hear him mutter the words "Red Square" several times en route, and resumes typing, with a small smile.

6 hours earlier…

John Watson feels he needs to rub his eyes as he enters his own bedroom. Things are not as they were when he left this morning.

It was like an explosion in a princess factory.

Shiny ruffles and iridescent waterfalls of discarded silks lie spread across almost every surface of the room he shares with the lovely Mary. Sequins glimmer in the half light of the lamp; lacy flounces and velvet ribbon in every colour from a – box of skittles - violet; claret; peridot green; midnight blue with a grosgrain hint of pewter… was that an actual FEATHER?

"I know, I KNOW…it is utterly ridiculous." Mary Watson has somehow emerged from this rainbow ocean and appears on the verge of actual hand-wringing.

"I used to be able to pack in thirty seconds flat…all the essentials…"

"a Sig 232, Beretta 84 or 85, CZ83…pair of socks…"

Sighing: "We agreed…"

John shakes his head, rueful.

"Sometimes it slips out. I did warn you…but can I say, Cinders, at this rate, you are _never_ going to go to the ball. We have less than an hour and your Fairy Godmother has just called and cancelled. You _have_ to choose a bloody FROCK!"

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is, this very night, being honoured for his part in securing (amongst others) the Brick Dust Killer and his vicious entourage. Parts of East London breathe a lot easier in their beds since Sherlock had helped Greg find their lynch-pin. The judge had locked him up and thrown the key so far away, not even a deep space probe on a fifty year mission would have found it.

The Connaught Hotel`s sumptuous ballroom is the venue for tonight`s `Met. Ball`; where Scotland Yard honours the best and bravest of their officers. Molly Hooper likes to call the awards ceremony, "The Officers", but only to herself, and to Benedict, who is not yet any judge of her bad jokes. Designed by Guy Oliver, the look of the sumptuous space is pure 1930`s Art Deco glamour but rich with contemporary twists. It is the perfect space for gala dinners, screenings and catwalk shows. Hence, Mary`s dress crisis.

Time was ticking.

Meanwhile, in a flat across town…

Feet running up and downstairs; drawers being wrenched open and slammed.

"Mrs HUDSON! Where have you hidden my…?" only interrupted by a paroxysm of coughing. "…cuff… (cough)… links?"

More slamming of drawers.

"Sherlock, please! You will make yourself ill – and wake that baby! How he sleeps in this – MADHOUSE – I will never –"

"Mrs Hudson, I swear, I will _hide_ your scratch cards…"

Martha Hudson, used to the various vexations inflicted upon her by her unique lodger is about to retort up the stairs at his rudeness when she mercifully hears –

"Hello there – are _these_ what you are looking for, Mr Holmes?"

The soft, gentle soothing tones of Molly Hooper, pouring the oil over the waters that are troubled. And the landlady (_not_ housekeeper) breathes a little sigh of relief, hearing the low rumble of his calmed voice and the light, dancing laughter of hers. "Well, thank goodness for that." She whispers, descending the stairs.

"…oh, and one more golden rule: it is always unwise to say that winning an award makes you feel "humble". Awards are expressly designed to do the opposite, and they infallibly do. When you say you are "humbled", what you are trying to do is reconnect with your audience by insisting that this does not lift you above them. That is natural: we instinctively know we appear less attractive when we affect superiority. But nobody is fooled. Better just to say you are `honoured`."

"Er…thanks?" Greg Lestrade is usually a man `humbled` by the superior and superbly disciplined mind of his – friend – Sherlock Holmes, but he is feeling nervous enough already, without last minute advice about speech making. Also – he looks carefully at Sherlock, cufflinks, black tie and all – and feels concern.

"You don`t look so good, Sherlock…are you coming down with something?"

John Watson looks from the neighbouring table, across at his friend. Sherlock Holmes always boasts of an "iron constitution" and has no time for illness or weakness of any kind. He is the most perfect reasoning machine the world has known, but tonight, he is no machine.

"Red rimmed eyes…you feel hot, Sherlock…" As he touches his friend`s brow, the Icelandic green-grey eyes focus directly and they look – pretty annoyed.

"Please, John, you sound like my mother – or Mycroft. I have told Molly, Mrs Hudson, Mary and now, Gary - "

"Greg."

" – that I am fine!" Sherlock`s forehead glistens with tiny beads of sweat in the coolish, early spring-like evening, but no-one wants to argue.

"So fine, in fact…" looking, almost slyly at the Detective Inspector… "that I can see you have taken up internet dating, Lestrade…"

"HOW do you…?"

"You recently cut your hair. Normally, a man of habit, you cut your hair every six weeks, without fail. Recently, it had been only a four week period since your last haircut. Clearly, your on-line pictures were to be taken. On your desk last week, I noticed no less than five tourist restaurant guides and "What`s On" brochures. Certain pages had corners bent back. You were narrowing down selected venues to take out whichever _lucky lady_ was successful. You have been moaning to John, myself and anyone else who will listen, about the "anti-social" hours of your shift patterns – never a problem when you were married, but now perhaps problematical with a new partner to impress. Plus, missing wedding ring – given up on the ex returning. Plus, new condoms in your wallet, just in case."

Smug smile. Arms folded. Sitting back.

Greg Lestrade, stands up awkwardly, the scraping chair filling the awkward silence.

"Ah…best go and…er…find my table. Not long till kick off…" And the award winner shuffles off, looking much more humble than he has ever deserved to look.

Mary pats Molly`s shoulder and turns, coldly to Sherlock.

"You may be as healthy as can be, Sherlock Holmes, but you can still sicken _me_, a little bit sometimes."

And the lights go down.

By the time the petit fours are being passed around, Prosecco bottles have been up-ended in their ice buckets and hand-stinging applause has died down. A hush descends in preparation for the evening`s finale – the Guest Speaker – Mr. Solar Pietersson.

"Ooh…" whispered Mary, school-girlish grin – "The Fjiord Detective! Love him!"

"She really does," confides John Watson, glancing at Molly. "Never misses a single episode."

Sherlock, who has been sucking a menthol-lyptus and rolling bread pellets, groans impolitely and rolls his red-rimmed eyes heavenwards.

John: "Ok, Nosferatu, no-one asked you. He manages to solve the puzzle and catch the murderer in under fifty minutes every week. Those Scandinavians are nothing if not efficient."

"A collection of Nordic fairy tales," dismisses Sherlock, with a cough. "He exhibits no logic at all – just throws himself around, having snowball fights with trolls and reindeers. Crime is commonplace, but true logic is rare. Same three tiered plot every week."

"EVERY week? Done some serious research, then?"

"Hush!" Molly. "He`s starting."

Solar Pietersson. Blond Nordic ruggedness parried so photogenically with topaz-blue eyes and enchanting dimples. And there was the jumper – always the patterned jumper, worn every week, almost like a uniform. Solar is tall, masculine and a Scandinavian maverick – each week, clashing with the Chief Inspector, going off-piste (sometimes, literally) and usually finishing the episode by punching a criminal mastermind and snogging the face off an Abba-esque blonde.

Fictional characters aside, Lars Lamstraud, the thirty year old actor who plays him, has a huge following on both sides of the Atlantic and is a virtual GOD on Tumblr; Twitter and chat shows. Even Detective Donovan sits up straight and shakes out her curls as he takes to the mic.

And even Sherlock Holmes, weary as he is, sits up straight in the next moment, when Lars steadies himself at the rostrum, takes a deep breath and smiles at his crowd. Strangely nervous, the actor`s hands are shaking. He looks down, then up again, almost a-tremble.

And drops down - dead - to the floor.

_Pandemonium._

That, reflects John Watson, in the days to come, was what you got when you chucked a suddenly dead celebrity into a glittering room full of half-cut police officers.

Chairs, savagely scraping back. Glasses, smashing to the marble-tiled floor. Shrieks and shouts mingling with stampeding feet and jostling bodies.

_Chaos_.

But in the midst of chaos, there is clarity, as Sherlock Holmes, leaps fluidly from his supine position and avoids the sprawling, confused throng by mounting the table, and jumping across the huge, golden ballroom from table to table, until he reaches the body of Lars Lamstraud.

He is almost the first to do so. Lestrade, recently medalled, is nearer and has drunk less than most of his colleagues. He kneels alongside Sherlock Holmes as the latter examines the twitching body.

Within a nanosecond, Dr. John Watson crashes down next to the body, vainly looking for signs of life and clearing airways.

"No pulse. Pupils dilated"

Oblivious to any clamoring around him, Sherlock is utterly focused. Uncharacteristic beads of sweat run down across his cheekbones and his hair seems flattened, soaked, against his head.

John is into his third round of chest compressions. "No heartbeat."

"Cocaine. Recently inhaled." Sherlock, wipes hair out of his eyes with the back of his gloved hand and points to a tiny, tell-tale residue around the nostrils of Lars Lamstraud. Pulling a tiny envelope from his breast pocket, Sherlock takes a tiny amount. Lestrade has absolutely no intention of stopping him. He can hear sirens and knows paramedics, however erroneous, are close at hand.

John is gasping with the effort of bringing a dead man back to life.

"Come ONNN…"

"OD?" Lestrade helps Sherlock check pockets and notices slight frothing in the corners of the actor`s mouth.

"Impossible to say, so soon. We can`t speculate before we have enough information… Wrong… to do so…what is this?"

Sherlock pulls a small fold of paper from the dead man`s jacket pocket. It contains at least half a gram of white powder.

"From the size of the fold, he doesn't appear to have taken much of this – peculiar ... particular… batch." He reaches in further and retrieves a valet parking ticket and a small card. Then, suddenly, he and the Detective Inspector are pushed away by the medics who kneel besides John, vainly, checking for signs of life.

Mary and Molly have reached the scene.

"Jesus – " Mary is visibly shocked. "What the hell just happened? Is he…?"

Sherlock Holmes looks at her, squinting against brightness. Mary and her voice seem such a long, long way away – like she is speaking from the bottom of a tunnel … a well?

_Off you pop. I told you how this ends. Go on…_

A small hand grasps his arm. Molly.

His arm feels so heavy. His whole body. So, so heavy.

Leaden.

Her face looks into his face. Sweet Molly, she looks so strange. So worried. Always worried.

_What do you need?_

_You._

_Off you pop._

And John and Greg Lestrade only just manage to catch Sherlock in time, as his knees buckle beneath him.


	2. Chapter 2

Newspaper editors have clearly been so overwhelmed by the previous evening`s events, reflects John Watson, that they`ve almost had apoplexy out-headlining each other that morning.

`SOLAR`S LAST STAND`

`SNOW AND ICE: TV DETECTIVE`S DRUGS DEATH SHAME`

`DYING DETECTIVES: SOLAR DEAD – WILL SHERLOCK PULL THROUGH?`

`DEADLY SECRETS AT POLICEMAN`S BALL`

Etc. etc.

"They`ve missed a chance there," remarks Mary Watson, loading up a tray to take upstairs.

"Unlikely – but do go on."

"`Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the MEASLES`!"

As an avid blogger and lover of a killer headline, John is suitable impressed by his wife.

"Kudos, Morstan." He reflects. "Tragic drugs overdose aside; am I wrong to find the idea of Sherlock Holmes catching a mutated form of the measles virus from his own son, absolutely hilarious?"

Mary hoists up the tray and hands it to Molly, who has just entered the room with her fragrant _swishiness _still in evidence.

"Not wrong at all, husband. Bless him – he was proper poorly last night, Deffo measly, then, Dr. Hooper?"

Molly, taking the tray: "100% measly. 104 temperature last night; Koplin`s spots in the mouth; dry cough; light sensitive eyes – the spots coming through as we speak."

"Spots. Funny. Spotty Sherlock. HOW did he miss having that as a kid? Doesn't it come with the territory?"

"It`s HOLMES boys we`re talking about here folks. Can you see them mixing with other kids long enough to pick up a germ or two?"

"Hmm….Maybe a punch or two, though."

Molly smiles at the Watsons` easy rapport – fab double act potential there – and carries some tea and paracetamol upstairs to her sick boy.

Blurred, then sharply into focus. The particles lie innocently enough beneath the slide. Yellowish-grey and roughly hexagonal shaped.

"Crystallised, from a liquid … organic, of course. Maybe a sap?"

Molly Hooper puts her hand on Sherlock`s shoulder and peers into the microscopes lenses.

"Just got the distillation works back. It was definitely _added_ to the coke."

Sherlock turns sharply, looking at her intensely. Molly`s heart jumps pleasantly, but she continues.

"A bulking agent…?"

"Or maybe…" Sherlock resumes at the microscope. "A murdering agent."

Like old times, John Watson sits opposite his friend in the tartan-blanketed chair. Unlike old times, Molly Hooper sits in the window seat, feeding her and Sherlock`s baby son. Gotta love those sudden, terrifying lurches into the future … _sometimes._

"Death from asphyxiation. Dilation of pupils; shaking and muscle spasms; over-production of saliva to cause frothing…"

"Surely, symptoms of cocaine overdose."

"No, John. I did the autopsy. Sherlock also found it in the traces around the nose."

"`It`?"

"Cicutoxin. It can do catastrophic damage to the central nervous system." Sherlock stopped to cough and scratch his left shoulder.

"A very nasty little poison and certainly not the `rush` Lars Lamstraud was looking for, fifteen minutes before taking to the podium."

"Are you saying he was – murdered?"

"Almost certainly. I have made many a detailed study of violent neuro-toxins – "

"As you do…"

"As _I _do. If you were only to familiarise yourself with my – "

"Blog? Maybe someone did, and got a few ideas on how to finish off a slightly annoying, Scandinavian TV detective."

Sherlock Holmes sits back and tents his fingers together beneath his mouth, and allows his friend to finish. Then -

"Cicuta douglasii or the Western water hemlock, is a poisonous plant in the family Apiaceae. It grows in wet places such as marshes, stream banks, meadows, and wet pastures. The main distinguishable characteristic is its toxicity. Cicutoxin is the toxin that is produced, making it the most poisonous plant in North America. It`s a yellowish liquid that is prevalent in the roots - an unsaturated alcohol that has a major impact on the central nervous system of animals. Early symptoms of poisoning include excessive salivation, frothing at the mouth, nervousness, and incoordination. These symptoms can turn into tremors, muscular weakness, seizures and respiratory failure. Very small amounts, about 0.1% of a person's body weight, can lead to death."

A breath.

"This scary information stored up there in your Mind Palace?"

"_This _was the substance Molly and I found mixed with the cocaine."

_Molly and I_. Atta boy.

"My god – have you…?"

"The Yard has been privy to the findings. It is not so much the _how_ that is a puzzle to me, now, John." More scratching. "It`s the _why_? Dull fella, but pleasant enough. No debts; wronged spouses; only a light-weight drugs habit. Collected snow storms; always learnt his lines. Harmless."

"Big fan following. Obsessive fan? Some of the fan art and fiction is quite…intense."

"Mycroft`s `_Haystack_` software found no reference or threat of any kind on the fan sites."

"`Haystack`?" John knits his brow.

"As in `finding a needle in a - ` Saves me no end of time. Sifts through data in a nanosecond. It`s no Mind Palace though." Sardonic smile.

Sherlock unfolds his legs from under him and walks, a little slower than usual, to his desk. John wonders, for the twentieth time, if he should be up and about so soon, but keeps his trap firmly shut.

Sherlock pulls a card from his drawer, throwing it to him. "Found it on Mr. Lamstraud. What do you make of it?"

Looking down, John sees a small business card with a small set of wings in the centre. The typeface is plain and black. Calibri or Calibri light?

**Angel`s Wings**

**Trust. Confidence. Integrity.**

**Discreet Courier Service**

**For your every need.**

**Celestial discretion our speciality**

And on the reverse:

**Can be a Heavenly host for Needs the world Over **

**Tel : 07322 43277**

**Quote Ref: 17-21-04**

"Telephone number?"

"Unobtainable."

John considers.

"It doesn't really tell us anything - " Almost as soon as the words are out, he remembers who he is with and wants to shove them back into his mouth.

"Ah, John, it tells us plenty!"

"Go on then."

"Sample of the paper pulp of the card shows residue of the sap from Tachigali versicolor, which is a species of tree found in western Colombia. It is monocarpic, flowering only once before dying, which gives rise to its common name of the `suicide tree`."

"Lovely."

"Colombia – a predominantly Roman Catholic country with strongly religious influences. Angels and similar icons used commonly there."

Sherlock walks across and takes the card back from his friend, studying it`s reverse more intently.

"But the back is where we get the most – fun. Strange tag-line or slogan: `Can be a Heavenly host for Needs the world Over.` Slightly odd English, in-line with the Spanish feel – but the capitalisation caught my eye. Random? Yet not."

Sherlock sits on the arm of John`s chair.

"Look, the C, the H, the N and the O are all capitals. Then, look at the reference number. 17-21-04. Simple really, when you have it all there."

"You`d think so, wouldn`t you. So, it means...?"

"It means I am a graduate chemist and have a periodic table in my bedroom. Pair the C with the 17, the H with the 21, the NO with the 4 and you have the chemical compound for – "

"Cocaine," says Molly Hooper, from the window seat.


	3. Chapter 3

Since 1123, a hospital has existed on the site of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in Smithfield, North West London. How much must the city landscape have changed since then. Bart`s has survived the Great Fire of London and the Blitz; housed some of the most innovative medical minds the western world has known – not least Dr. John H. Watson – and is also quite a remarkable sun trap on one of the first sunny afternoons of the insipid London Spring.

Sherlock Holmes stretches out his long legs and flexes his bare toes, musing that a measles rash takes a ridiculously long time to disappear from the human skin. Glancing up; viewing wispy little clouds, drifting gently and aimlessly across a forget-me-not sky. London pigeons peck invisible grain with renewed vigour and the rumble of London`s interminable traffic seems muffled, distant and far, far away.

Sherlock leans back in his deckchair and closes his eyes behind Ray-bans. He still hasn`t quite de-sensitised his measle-infested eyeballs completely. John has mocked mercilessly about the damn sunglasses. No, he didn't think he was a rock star. No, he wasn't attempting to replace the iconic deer-bloody-stalker with a more attractive gimmick. He had a "gimmick" now? _Hoo-bloody-ray_.

Warmth steels across his pale face and seeps into his tired bones. Sherlock IS tired. He is _knackered_, truth be told. The virus has wiped him out in a way nothing had ever done before. Not even the butt of an Estonian guard`s rifle had floored him for this long. His brain attic is slow and dusty and needs – something - to bring it back to life.

"Ah, Sherlock – catching some _rays_, I see. Remarkable. First time in – what? Thirty five years?"

Internal sigh. _Mycroft._

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed.

"You really need to return to Norton & sons, Mycroft. Your new tailor uses the most _caustic_ brand of moth-balls."

"Oh, Sherlock, you know how I like my reversed side vents."

"And a raised waistline for a longer, leaner feel. Pastry is _not_ your friend, Mycroft." Sherlock does, however, sit up and push his sunglasses atop his dark curls, surveying his immaculately dressed brother. Mycroft is as at home on the roof of a thirteenth century hospital (and suicide venue), as he is in the Queen`s drawing room at Buckingham Palace. Assured. Correct. Intensely irritating.

Mycroft – surveying Sherlock`s surf shorts – "I can only hope, Brother mine, that your current _beach bum_ garb has something to do with your recent illness clouding the judgment."

Firmly pushing the thought of his brother using the phrase `beach bum` out of his Mind Palace; Sherlock Holmes feels - a distinct chill. A fear; that his mind, his most precious and rarified gift, has in some way dimmed and can never be reclaimed.

"Sherlock - " Mycroft sits, places his umbrella beside his brother`s deckchair, and speaks with a gentler tone. "You need a holiday."

"Hey, this two-headed parrot still manages to use his unicycle! Who knew?"

Mary Watson doesn't even look up at her husband as she re-nappies her son. "John, I`ve told you before, Facebook rots ya brain."

"Ho-ho… here`s one for Sherlock - `My people skills are fine; it`s just my tolerance of idiots that needs work`…hey – come here Sholto, let me see those _tremendous_ gums."

John gets up from his lap-top and lifts up his son, dressed in a riotous pirate-themed baby-gro. "YOU are quite the swashbuckler, my friend. Actually, Mary, many of our – Sherlock`s - clients come via Facebook. You remember `The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth?`"

"Ohhh…the dentist plagued by odd, misshapen molars being posted to him every week?"

"Yes, a tawdry tale of betrayal and general wife-stealing skullduggery."

"Hmm – I`m beginning to think Sherlock has a point about your flowery flourishes in these blogs."

John affects to adopt his `wounded face`, but laughs out loud instead. _Busted._

"Anyway, I think we`ve got another… bite. A bit of a celebrity actually…"

"Oooh. Tell me more."

Dr. Leo Sterndale is a mountain of a man. A huge body looms out of the "client`s chair" in 221B, like a gore-tex covered bouncy castle; rendering the piece of furniture ridiculously dolls house-worthy. His face is craggy and deeply lined, housing a strong, hawk-like nose and unshaven cheeks. Grizzled, wild hair springs riotously from his head and a shaggy beard tinged with golden flecks adds to the lion-esque quality of the man.

How appropriate then, considers Dr. John Watson, that Dr. Leo Sterndale is known, in media-land, as `The Lion Man`. He writes and hosts a hugely popular natural history show on BBC 2 called (unsurprisingly) `Leo`s Lions`. Beautifully shot and scored to perfection musically, the program is visual Viagra for the animal/nature lover. Leo will often be zoomed in on, via helicopter rig, standing atop a mountainous outcrop, king of all he surveys. _Look Simba, everything the light touches is our kingdom__. _

Leo Sterndale has made his fame and fortune from tracking, taming, filming and generally, talking, about lions to anyone who will listen. His books and DVDs sell so well, due partly to the BBC cinematography and music, but mostly because his passion is real and his motives pure. And the public do so love a passionate environmentalist.

The new client, feeling the heat of either the stair climb or unusually bright April sunshine, removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He is clearly uncomfortable; on every level.

"So, Dr Sterndale, please tell myself and Dr Watson here, what could have caused you to turn back from your latest journey to Africa in such haste?"

Sterndale`s deep, bass voice booms out: "Ah, Mr Holmes, I had heard of your mind games and I now find myself their focus…tell me how you know this."

John shifts slightly in his chair and begins to see how lions start to become tamed. The man is – _Alpha_ – in every way. Fortunately, perhaps, so is Sherlock Holmes.

"Great weather in London, yet I see you there, dressed in £350 worth of waterproof Gore-tex. It`s April and West Africa is undergoing a rather early and heavy onset to its rainy season. Also, I see from your inner left elbow, a small residue of grey gum, from a recently removed plaster. In such a placement, this is most likely to have been covering a puncture wound from a hypodermic needle. Perhaps 8 to 10 days old? I know from your biography that you have not visited Western Africa for over ten years and also know that Yellow Fever is a required inoculation for such a visit, and must be "boosted" every ten years if needed. Combined with the packet of malaria tablets in your inner pocket, this information leads me to believe you were outward bound to a possibly Western African destination."

"And the turning back?"

"British Airways pen sticking out of inner pocket. Exclusive to the First Class lounge. They change their design slightly every three months. You have the latest design. You were checking in and decided, for some reason, against it. Now, I am no mind game player – "

The _tiniest_ cough escapes John Watson.

" – so I would like the honest truth as to the nature of your visit." Pause. "And DON`T be boring. I haven't been myself lately and could nod off."

So taken aback is Dr Leo Sterndale, that he sits back in his teeny-tiny chair and surveys Sherlock through heavy lids. Then booms out the loudest of laughs – much resembling the Queen Mary`s foghorn coming into port.

"I think you may be of help to me, after all, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock cracks a smile.

"Omne ignotum pro magnifico," he breathes. "Everything unknown seems grand – until I tell it."

Dr. Sterndale thus tells his tale.

"For the past fifteen years, I have loved the same woman, Brenda Mortimer. She has waited patiently for me as I travelled the world. Even working on my programmes, from time to time, just to be close to me. I have been such a nomad I didn't think it fair to start a life with her until I`d decided to settle. This was to be my last series of `Leo`s Lions` and I was ready to marry my Brenda."

Sherlock has his eyes closed and is leaning against one hand. John is f_ervently _hoping he _hasn't_ nodded off…

"Enchanting." He murmurs. Opening one grey(ish) eye, and looking directly at the Lion doctor. "Problem?"

Leo puts his leonine head in his giant hands and sighs (_how else?_) heavily. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, as I was about to board my flight to Senegal this morning, I received a text from my agent. Brenda Mortimer has been arrested – in connection with the murders of Lars Lamstraud; Jay Willoughby Smith and Eduardo Lucas." The mountainous man pauses to gather breath and rub his Neolithic face. "I need you to help me – to help US!"

Sherlock Holmes sits up straight and alert in his chair, and, instantly, one of the greatest minds in the western world is at the Lion doctor`s service.


	4. Chapter 4

In the five weeks since the death of Lars Lamstraud, there has been two more celebrity drug `overdoses`. Thanks to a supremely effective lockdown at Scotland Yard, the general public are still blissfully unaware of the murderous cicutoxin aspects to the case. Sherlock Holmes has employed every room in his Mind Palace to forge a link between the three dead men, to no avail. Even _Haystack_ has proved needle-less.

Jay Willoughby Smith had been a well-packaged reality TV product – limited intellect had not proved an obstacle to his satsuma`d face and dazzling teeth appearing in the weekly gossip and showbiz magazines on a regular basis. There was no envelope that went unopened without the attendance of JWS (as fans, impatient with too many syllables, labelled him). No serious vices or enemies. (Perhaps it _was_ only Sherlock Holmes who was destined to have an arch-enemy.)

Eduardo Lucas. TV `eco-chef`. Pony-tailed hipster with a ruby in his front tooth and 1,001 ways with lentils and meat-free recipes. Eduardo lived in a yurt in the middle of a boggy field; subsisting on home-grown samphire and home-made mead. The man loved nature and regularly shared with the 1.5 million viewers of his TV show, `Live and Let Live with Lucas`, his vision of a brighter, cleaner, better world, without eating animals and `raping the planet`. No badness; no enemies and no longer alive to save anyone or anything.

Sally Donovan slapped a tepid, plastic cup of coffee down in front of Sherlock. Although, not exactly _warming_ to him, John detected a slight sea-change in her attitude since pictures of Benedict had made the rounds in the office.

"There you go, Freak. Don't want you passing out all over the place again."

"Lestrade, I need to know the reasons behind the arrest of Brenda Mortimer."

The Detective Inspector started and glared at Sherlock. "HOW did you know…some lockdown!"

"I need no obstacles, Lestrade – this case has become a serial killing spree. How can a thirty-five year old ex-librarian and BBC wardrobe assistant become one of Scotland Yard`s `Most Wanted`?"

Greg Lestrade had been minutes away from texting Sherlock before the latter had stormed into his office. He wasn't in the mood for Sherlock lording it over him quite yet, today. He needed a little flourish to gain the upper hand. Taking a card from his in-tray, Greg throws it across to Sherlock Holmes.

**Angel`s Wings**

**Trust. Confidence. Integrity.**

**Discreet Courier Service**

**For your every need.**

**Celestial discretion our speciality**

"She came in to ask directions at the main desk. Eagle-Eyed Mckentyre was on duty, thank goodness. Spotted this when it fell out of her bag."

Sherlock holds the card up to the light. Exactly the same, in every aspect. Back and front. Except –

He whips out his magnifying lens, focusing on the bottom left hand corner.

"You noticed this? Change in the reflectivity of the card in the corner. Turn out the lights and get me an ultra-violet scanner." Rude, but effective.

Glowing faintly, in the eerie half-light, all see in the bottom left hand corner of the card, the initials.

"B.M."

Hunched over the interview room table, petite with pale red hair, Brenda Mortimer doesn't resemble, in any aspect, a serial killer. However, as Sherlock has often commented, if serial killers were to ever get past murder number one, they would have to resemble a homicidal, nefarious psychopath as little as possible.

Brenda manages this supremely well, so thinks John Watson, as Sherlock sits opposite the object of his client`s affections and takes her hand. John is momentarily touched by the Reasoning Machine`s empathy – until Sherlock pulls out the scanner from his coat pocket and clinically runs it over her hands.

"No evidence of ultra-violet ink Miss Mortimer. Hello, my name is Sherlock Holmes and I have been asked by a Dr. Leo Sterndale to investigate your involvement in this case."

Pale, wet, veridian eyes; framed with pale, blonde lashes. Trembling mouth; pale skin beneath cinnamon freckles. It seems, reflects John Watson, Miss Mortimer is quite the _beauty_.

"I just – " more tears leak out. John prays Sherlock has adopted his `sympathy face`. "I _just_ wish I could answer any of your questions." Sniffing and tissue fumbling. "I can`t – " Ridiculously beautiful eyes, as green as sea glass, look up at Sherlock. "I just CAN`T remember ANYTHING!" More sobbing.

But Sherlock Holmes is immune.

"You carried a vital piece of evidence linking you to these crimes in your bag. At this very moment, Scotland Yard`s – _finest_ – are carrying out a search of your flat. I can tell you – at this point – there has already been a sizeable haul of class A found on your property."

"NO!" Red hair flying as Brenda Mortimer stands, and shows some of the fire that must have attracted such an alpha-male as Leo Sterndale. "I didn't do anything! I didn't do ANY-THING!" She grabs Sherlock by the forearms and eyeballs him, with new ferocity.

"I promise you, Sherlock Holmes – I WOULD not do anything to hurt my Leo! I was in Medellin six weeks ago, buying props. Leo calls me and tells me we can finally be together. I have waited half my life for that man, so WHY would I jeopardise my happiness by – drug trafficking?" Her energy leaves her and she collapses back on the desk, crying anew.

"Oh, let me see – you have, at least, two jobs; one of which pays quite well, yet you live in a cheap bedsit in Canning Town and wear plastic boots which you have attempted to repair - twice. Your physical appearance does not bely a narcotic or alcohol habit, so my deduction would be – debt. Probably, not an expensive retail addiction from sight of your coat, watch and out of date oyster card, but something else…gambling? – ah…there we have it."

At mention of the g-word, Brenda Mortimer`s face has coloured up, like a flame in a bottle of milk. Sherlock is standing and walking around her, like a buyer at the slave market – assessing; speculating.

"Yet, not you – not _you_…" She watches, like a meerkat watching a snake.

Triumphantly: "Your parents! I recall the case, John. Robert Mortimer, famous botanist and author – came late to poker but still managed to lose his house, his cars, his reputation and, ultimately, his health."

Brenda has stopped crying and eyes Sherlock with a new and delicate coldness.

"Yes, he died penniless and we had to pick up the pieces. He couldn't live with the shame. Leo has never known how hard I`ve worked to appear affluent. He mustn`t know. I couldn`t bear his pity."

And it the midst of the terrible position she finds herself in, Brenda Mortimer shows something else. Dignity.

John Watson sits down opposite her and shows kindness in his eyes, for that is _his_ strength.

"Whatever you may think Miss Mortimer, we want to help you. We can help you, but we must have the truth. All you know."

Brenda Mortimer had answered an ad in Time Out and found herself on a plane to Columbia. She knew the job seemed a little too good to be true – buying local artefacts to dress a new chain of South American restaurants opening shortly in the West End. After arriving on the Tuesday, she had taken a taxi ride to a dingy office in a South West corner of Medellin and been given a map and handful of pesos to kick start her buying expedition. After that, it seemed that Brenda`s memory had let her down.

"I must have eaten or drank something strange – poisonous. I felt light-headed, headachey. I began to lose hours out of the day, like a fast forward on a DVD. Whole portions of time disappeared. I got scared. I just got on the plane on the Friday. I don't remember the journey, just arriving at my flat. I had that card in my bag, but didn't think much of it. It was an awful experience I just couldn't share with Leo – but I just can`t think how the drugs are in my flat and three men are dead – because of something I may have done."

The evidence is fairly irrefutable, however, and when toxicology find traces of cocaine and cicutoxin in Brenda Mortimer`s handbag, she is arrested and taken down to the cells. And all the King`s horses and all the King`s men can`t get Leo Sterndale the result he wants.

** x**

"She _is_ innocent, though." Sherlock Holmes so proclaims from the fairly unorthodox podium of his bath tub. Molly Hooper sits on the side of the bath and gently massages coconut shampoo through his thick, dark hair. Her hands are small but strong, and supple fingers release the aches from his temples. It really is quite delightful.

"John says she was remarkably pretty," comments Molly, artlessly, shielding his closed eyes from the soap, much like she does with Benedict.

"Was she?" It`s at times like this that she could kiss the face _right off him_. But doesn't. He has to be handled in the right way, like a rare species.

"Regardless of Miss Mortimer`s – appearance – I know she is telling the truth. She may indeed have trafficked the drugs that have killed three high profile men over the last five weeks, but she is innocent because she does not know how or why it has happened."

Sherlock lies down amongst the suds and disappears beneath the water to wash away the soap. He emerges, wide-eyed and blinking, like a beautiful, sleek, giant otter – _reborn_. And Molly`s eyes almost tear up with love for him.

"Molly, you have that `_face_` - I can`t quite handle that `_face_` - you _know_ it." She throws a sponge right between his eyes and smiles.

"Ah, shaddap! Or I won`t use conditioner."

** x**

Sherlock`s brain attic suddenly changes gear and he is thrown back into the here and now. He becomes aware of John Watson sitting in the chair opposite, looking – expectant?

"Have you been there long?"

"Around an hour. I`ve had two cups of tea and given Benedict half a banana. Are you _back_ now?"

"Thinking. I have interviewed literally hundreds of killers. I can always spot the moment they lie to me. A pause before answering; touching of the mouth or nose; too little eye contact, or too much; a longer than usual blink; leaning away or lack of mirroring…"

"You`ve written a blog on this, haven`t you?"

Eye roll.

"She would have made up a better story than `I can`t remember`. If you never lie, you never have to remember."

Sherlock pauses to peel off one of his nicotine patches. Hmm…down to two. A good sign.

"Brenda Mortimer displayed no sign of lying. Not one. She showed dignity when confronted with the misery of her father`s decline and, I believe, genuine affection for Dr. Sterndale."

John could not have been prouder of his friend than at that moment.

"So, love isn`t just a loser`s game, then?"

Sherlock Holmes seems to regress into his Mind Palace, for a brief second, then returns to the present.

"It has its _moments_." He concedes.


	5. Chapter 5

Marylebone Farmers' Market puts the 'Marylebone Village' on the map as a destination for great food. On Sundays, the market site usually has between 30 and 40 stalls and is heaving with locals doing their weekly shopping, as well as food enthusiasts from all over the capital.

This particular Sunday sees Molly Hooper and Mary Watson wandering through the rustic `artisan` brioches; truckles of redolent cheeses and slices of spanakopita.

"Thyme-scented peaches, Molly?" Mary holds aloft an improbably priced, yet tiny, jar of floating fruit in a slightly greying liquid.

"Ooh, no. Reminds me of Mr. Archibold`s impossibly huge gallstones."

Mary carefully replaces the peaches with a dazzling smile to the stallholder. She likes to watch people when they don't know she`s watching them. She`s doing it right now, with Molly Hooper.

She watches and she considers what she knows about Molly.

Molly Hooper _likes_…

Buying fruit in even numbers. Woe betide the fifth or seventh apple – thou shall not pass (into the bag)

Green tinged roses (or miniature cabbages, as Sherlock calls them)

Mary`s jokes – the ruder, the better

Chubby ginger cats (RIP Toby)

Her beautiful (but slightly sinister) Leica Autopsy knife set (a gift from – well, who do you think?)

Brightly coloured flower heads, frozen into ice cubes

Tom Ford`s _Tobacco Vanille_ cologne

Chicken and Mushroom pot noodles (_without_ the soya sauce sachet – a _purist_)

Her son`s dimpled cheeks

When Sherlock Holmes _really _looks at her…

And

Cornish pasties – it seems…

Molly and Mary have arrived at a beautifully be-decked pasty stall, whimsically called - `_The Life of Pie_`. Charming bunting; gingham table cloths, artfully cascading from up-turned cornucopia's, overflowing with pasties. Molly is being charmed by a suitably rustic looking bearded gentleman, dressed in a tartan shirt and rough tweeds. He has _startlingly_ blue eyes.

"…your golden pastry, filled with the finest swede and potato and succulent, slow-cooked beef mince…"

Mary, holding up her free hand: "Sold! I`ll take four. John`s working night shift at the lab all week. I`m not even going to pretend to cook."

Molly takes four for Baker Street and one for Mike Stamford, who has fallen, quite spectacularly, off the Atkin`s Diet Wagon.

The grateful pie man pushes a leaflet on them.

"Here, my lovelies; like and share our Facebook page and you could win an all-expenses paid holiday break on our beautiful Cornish coast."

Mary sighs. "John is obsessed with Facebook enough as it is…`19 Things that happen when you`re drunk – as seen by your pets`…"

Molly giggles. "I think his Master`s must be stressing him out. His Candy Crush levels are outclassing Sherlock`s"

"Sherlock Holmes plays Candy Crush Saga? You _have_ to be kidding me?"

Molly pockets the competition leaflet, smiling.

"And so does Mycroft."

** x**

Sherlock Holmes is pacing around Skylab. His lab coat is flapping around his (much more) gangly frame. His hands are agitated (SO desperate for a cigarette) and his eyes are crackling with a latent heat. John, adding saline solution to several distillations, has seen it all before. The Game –

"It`s ON! I know who supplied the drugs!" His hands slam down on the granite, narrowly missing a sizeable part of John`s research project for module B. For about the fifteenth time, John considers the temporary closure of Bart`s post-grad. research lab a _very_ unnecessary evil.

"Jose Hermano – he is the drugs lord in charge of `Angel`s Wings` and he is on borrowed time. As we speak, a covert SWAT team is on its way to a small office building in downtown Parque Barrio to take him in."

John is astounded at this sudden turn of events. He really believed that Leo Sterndale had lost all chance of being with his beloved Brenda again. Perhaps –

"This morning, I went to see Brenda Mortimer." Confirms Sherlock Holmes.

Three hours earlier…

Brenda looks paler, thinner – darker, somehow? Curled up on a grim, orange, plastic chair in a grimmer, scuffed interview room, which smells of pine disinfectant and – despair.

She is dressed in prison clothing and her wild red hair is now tamed by a plastic band. It seems faded. _She_ seems faded.

Sherlock Holmes sits across from this shadow of the girl he has seen but seven days previously. His prime observational skills have missed nothing of her physical plight. Her emotional plight was now less of a mystery than it once could have been. Although love and loss are fairly new to Sherlock Holmes, he is a very quick learner. His Mind Palace locates a way in. Sherlock leans forward and touches Brenda on the shoulder. Gently, says the touch. I understand. I am here to help you. I want your trust.

"Miss Mortimer – "

Those dazzling eyes, now a sludge of khaki. Dimmed. Lost of hope. She looks at him and sees his strength of purpose – and a glimmer of…empathy. Molly will be so proud.

"I can`t be here, Mr. Holmes. It will end me. I fear for my Leo – I can`t let him see me and he is devastated – "

Sherlock holds up a hand. He needs her to keep looking at him. And to _relax_…

"You HYPNOTISED her?! You can do _this_ now?" Back in the lab, John is clearly stunned.

"I watched a video on You Tube; read a book. Took me about ninety minutes. Simple, auto-suggestive techniques. The only question is, _why_ haven`t I done it before?"

"God!" Many scenarios are running through John Watson`s mind. "How the hell do I know you haven`t?!"

"In general, convert hypnosis is a form of conversation. One person performs hypnosis techniques on the other part without his/her knowledge. And the other's emotion and sub consciousness are influenced by the performer."

By the light of the 40 watt bulb in the interview room, Sherlock continues to look into the green eyes of Brenda Mortimer and gently takes her limp hand. She does not resist. If Sally Donovan finds this part of `the Freak Show`, she doesn`t react; merely watches from the doorway.

"Look at me, Miss Mortimer, and continue to look until I tell you to do something." Her red-rimmed eyes do not move from his face.

"I am going to give you instructions and you are going to guide my energy by pushing down on my hand. I am going to count to three."

Sherlock feels an infinitesimal tightening on his hand.

"1 – 2 – 3 … push, push, _push_. Gently, gently," his voice is so soft and low that Sally has to give herself a little shake to stand up straighter.

"Now, push a little _harder_…_firmer_…there - push _hard_ on my hand, Miss Mortimer…" Like dark, rich chocolate, rolling over the back of a golden spoon; dripping into soft pools of dark molasses – Lordy! Sally Donovan takes to a grim, orange plastic chair and decides she may need back-up. Or a lie down.

Sherlock continues caressing Brenda`s hand and, with his left, he shades her eyes and closes them, in one deft move.

"You must keep pressing my hand if you want to sleep. If you are tired and need to lie down; deep in your soft, calm bed…"

By now, Lestrade has silently joined the strange tableaux and finds himself slightly unnerved by the whole thing, particularly the _very_ sudden departure of Sergeant Donovan.

Brenda Mortimer presses down once more, and Sherlock knows he has her.

"Sleep."

Turning triumphantly to Lestrade (?) he barely registers the Detective Inspector`s slack-jawed demeanor.

"Now we`ll see how much she can remember."

In Skylab, Sherlock stops, mid-explanation, observing his friend. "Strange, that is the _exact_ facsimile of Lestrade`s face."

In the fashion of Sally Donovan, John shakes it off. _God almighty_, who gave Sherlock Holmes THAT box of tricks to play with? He blames Molly Hooper.

"Do you have to be good at bloody _everything_ new you try?"

And Sherlock has the grace to grin.

Brenda`s eyes remained fixed into the distance. The thousand yard stare.

" I remember a tiny window. Airless room. Hard to breathe. I was sweating…"

"Who was in the room with you?"

"Mr. Hermano. Jose, of course."

"Of course. Jose. What did he say to you?"

Creased brow. "I can`t remember."

"Press my hand for energy to remember what he said."

"Mmm. Yes. A favour. Por favor." She smiles. "Would I take some parcels back with me? It would be easy work. Some artefacts. Customs people can be difficult about – recuerdo historico – antiques."

"Yes, they may be. Did you see the artefacts?"

"Wrapped up. Don`t want to break…"

"I know. Relax. You are doing so well. Are you tired, Miss Mortimer?"

"Yes. I want my bed."

"Soon. Just tell me one more thing. Look out of the window and tell me, what do you see?"

"I – I …"

"Please…por favor. ¿qué se puede ver por la ventana?"

"I am trying…oh! I see it!"

"Good. buena chica, buena."

"An angel. I see a beautiful angel! Standing in the courtyard. Everywhere here is so hot, so ugly and dirty. She is beautiful. She is an angel to take care of me… ángel con los ojos azules…"

Angel, with the blue eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Within hours the Angel Wings cartel is no more. The death of three, _very_ public figures, due to tainted drugs, has deeply distressed a Medellin government, desperate to improve crime rates. Since 2002, Operation Orion has helped disband and demobilise many of the urban militias. Things had looked better as over 3,000 armed men gave up their weapons, but were only to be later re-organised into Aguilas Negras, criminal bands, dealing in social cleansing – murder on a grand scale. And, running through the veins of such criminality are the drugs that fund and fuel and fight. Such terrible PR was not to be tolerated and the brainchild of Jose Hermano; linking drugs; prostitution; arms trafficking and blackmail throughout the city was raised to the ground.

"An example had to be set," comments Mycroft Holmes, sitting across from John and Sherlock in Baker Street the next day. He is doing his best to remain dignified whilst balancing a china cup and saucer, a custard cream and a six month old nephew on his lap. A very _wriggly_ nephew.

"So, dear brother, please explain, for the sake of Dr. Watson`s blog, how you found his whereabouts. Hermano has been in hiding for several long months. All our leads had run cold."

Sherlock tents his fingers, smiling internally at _Uncle_ Mycroft. "Since I found the card on Mr. Lamstraud, I researched all things `angel`. My Mind Palace is full of iconography; stories; odd anecdotes – I really need to delete most of it. However, the moment Miss Mortimer spoke of the Angel with the Blue Eyes, I remembered a unique and particularly beautiful statue in the cathedral at Parque Barrio. An alabaster carving of an angel, with eyes made of lapis lazuli, giving it a different and memorable look. Copies were limited, due to a request from the sculptor. He decreed there could only be four made, and placed North, East, South and West of the cathedral. The Statue in the square behind Hermano`s `office` had to be one of these. Because of Miss Mortimer`s description of the position of the sun and shadow that afternoon, it had to be the Southern Statue. Hidey-hole located. Bad drugs man stopped."

Mycroft has elected to leave his tea and lift Benedict across, to his father.

"Kudos, dear brother. Congratulations. We really are quite…grateful."

"Apparently, in addition to having an angel in his garden, Hermano gave thousands to charity and was building a children`s home." Adds John, from his laptop.

"Hmmm," reflects Sherlock Holmes, as his son attempts to grab handfuls of his father`s dark curls. "It`s only ever bad people who really count their good deeds."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Molly Hooper and John Watson stand, _whisper-arguing_, outside the door of the Morgue. Sherlock is currently inside, collecting something quite unspeakable from beneath the fingernails of the late Mr. Jonathan Small.

"I`ll tell him – it`s best to do it straight away. He won`t forgive delaying it."

"He`s still not on top form, physically…"

"I should do it – he might go off on it with you – "

Molly puts a small, pale hand on John`s arm. She is strength itself. "I can handle him." And she opens the door.

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

The morning after Miss Brenda Mortimer`s body has been found, hanged, in her cell, Mrs. Hudson brings the post up to 221B.

She has promised Mycroft that she and Molly Hooper have made a thorough search of Sherlock`s rooms and had been confident any `danger` has been averted. Knocking cautiously, she can hear the thin strains of a melancholy melody, seeping through the door. Not good.

"Sherlock? A letter for you." Instantly, the playing stops and the door is wrenched open.

"Mrs Hudson, in the light of the nature of my most recent case, I can assure you, _and my brother_, that a seven percent solution is the furthest possible thing from my mind at present." And he snatches the envelope, closing the door.

From inside the expensive (locally posted, self-adhesive – no saliva) envelope falls a single business card.

**Angel`s Wings**

**Trust. Confidence. Integrity.**

**Discreet Courier Service**

**For your every need.**

**Celestial discretion our speciality**

**And on the reverse:**

**`Aprendido la leccion***

**B.M.`**

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

For five mentally and physically exhausting hours, Lt. James M Dodd purposefully places himself in harm's way. His conduct is extraordinary, personifying his astonishing and exemplary level of gallantry. On his hands and knees, he has painstakingly searched a ditch, often with little more than his fingertips, for improvised explosive devices (IEDs). The deep ditch has provided insurgents with the perfect cover to creep along the side of the road and plant the explosives on it. The Royal Northumberland Fusiliers has already lost one soldier on the road, when a powerful IED had exploded as they passed along it a few weeks earlier. Dr John H Watson has ventured out to relieve the soldier, bringing him respite from the blistering heat of the Kandashar sun.

Dodd looks up from his task, towards John and shouts across the desert sands.

"John! Stop! STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"

He leaps up from the ditch and takes something from his pocket, throwing it towards a patch of land somewhere between the two men. A sudden explosion sends out a blast of sand and sound, so loud, John`s eardrums ring for days afterwards. A land mine.

With an apple core from his pocket, James M Dodd had detonated the mine he suddenly spotted in the pathway of John H Watson. And so saved his life.

"I can`t bloody believe it – Mary – I`ve found James!"

John Watson looks up from Facebook. Mary looks up from _Fifty Shades of Grey_. "Hmmm?"

"Lt. James M. Dodd. I`ve been on here, searching for him for ages. He must have joined recently. This is great, Mary, really great. He saved my life in Afghanistan. Looks like he`s living in Cornwall now."

Mary has stepped over to her husband to see. A blurred, cropped image shows a sandy haired smiling man. Weather-beaten face and missing front tooth.

"That is _brilliant_ – get in touch."

John presses the `post` button, satisfied. "Done."

**X0x0x0x0x0x0x**

On the Lizard Peninsula, South west of the town of Helston, there lies the charming Cornish fishing village of Tredannick Woollas; a dramatic and beautiful coastline of endless beaches, craggy outcrops and diverse terrain. Neolithic man once roamed this coastline, finding flint for his spears and arrows on the shingly beaches. A complex geology and wide range of wildlife habitats bring the keen nature lovers in their droves. And, it seems, the not-quite-so-keen ones.

Sherlock Holmes has spent the last seven hours from Paddington station, curled up in the corner of the (mercifully empty) railway carriage; wrapped tightly in his coat and _incommunicado – _bar answering the frequent texts that broke the silence.

In that same time, John Watson has read two newspapers (`_Death of Leo`s Drug`s Mule – Mortimer Curse`; `Sherlock`s Last_ _Case?`; `Leo Can`t Let Go`; `The Final Problem – has Sherlock lost it?_`); updated his FB status (`_John is: feeling optimistic about his holiday_`); eaten a deeply questionable sandwich and stared out the window for a good hour, watching the increasingly charming fields and houses as they pass through Frome; Taunton; Exeter; Newton Abbot; Plymouth; St. Austell and Truro. It really is a huge journey to be undertaking with a less than functioning sociopath. He tries again.

"Well, those fields look _fresh_ and – invigorating. Quaint little houses, dotted around…don't think you can beat our landscapes in this country."

It stirs.

"Urgh." It speaks. "There is something isolated and dangerous about houses in the middle of nowhere. They fill me with a certain – horror. The _things_ that can go on; miles from any law enforcement or protection for the weak and vulnerable. Give me Brixton, any day of the week."

"Sherlock," sighs John Watson. "_That_ is exactly the kind of place we are going to. Get away from some of the stress you – and me – have been under lately. It`s what we need. You said you were happy to come. When my friend, James, offered his hou – "

Sneer. "Your internet FACEBOOK _friend_ James."

Deep breath, John.

" – his HOUSE in Tredannick Woollas, you agreed you needed to get – and I quote - `the stink of London` - out of your lungs."

Sherlock uncurls himself and looks curiously at his friend. "How well do you know this – _friend_?"

"Sherlock, I told you, he saved my – "

Rudely, waving his hand. " Your life. Yes, yes, but since the touching Facebook reunion – have you actually met him? At all?"

"Well, no."

"And here he is, lending you his Cornish bolt hole, for a whole week, while he`s away. Trusting."

"Friends you make in the Forces are different, Sherlock. There are bonds of life and death. Trust is everything when a man is responsible for the next breath you take."

Sherlock stands and stretches as the train begins to slow. He reaches for their bags from the overhead storage and then turns up his collar.

"Well then, here we are at Redruth. Time for a change, I think."


	7. Chapter 7

At over 800 years old, Helston is the second oldest town in Cornwall. Transected by the River Cober and home to Henry Trengrouse, inventor of the rocket powered safety line; it is the nearest `_civilisation_` to the tiny hamlet of Tredannick Woollas. A pretty market square is surrounded by a pretty, stained-glass window church (St. Michael`s); an indoor market (1837); a folk museum and several little shops and cafes. Ne`er a Starbucks nor Carphone warehouse to offend the eye of the happy tourist.

Sherlock Holmes strides ahead, looking for the taxi rank, until he is stopped short by a shop sign, next to a greengrocer`s. "The Life of Pie" was the name of the bakery (stuffed to the gunnels, he notes, with the ubiquitous Cornish pasty) and a strange bridge like sign was protruding above the window; much like an old fashioned pub sign. John has caught up with him.

"Looks like we`ll not go hungry, then. I like the name."

"As do I," says Sherlock, thoughtfully.

**x0x0x0x0x0x**

Stepping out of the taxi.

"Oh, wow."

_Bloodybuggerohell._

"When you said `_house_`, I thought you meant a dwelling with fewer than thirty rooms."

Tregennis Lodge is a beautiful, buttermilk Georgian – _mansion_. A gravel drive sweeps across its portico, and original sash windows glow warmly above their heads in the light of the approaching sunset. Ancient ivy snakes up the pale walls, mingling with the clematis that is budding and will soon explode into its amethyst beauty.

"Did your friend win the lottery after he was de-mobbed?"

"He said his family were `comfortable`." Clearly, an _understated_ kind of Lieutenant.

The door was ebony black and demarked by a huge brass sea serpent or lizard, acting as a knocker. Fortunately, John has remembered the whereabouts of the key (third plant pot from the left) and Sherlock was too stunned by the house to even comment about crime prevention in the `isolated and dangerous` countryside.

Low, orange and golden shafts of light slant in through the two hundred year old windows as two grown men in their thirties run, shouting, from room to room in the empty house; yelling as they discover a feature more amazing or luxurious than the last.

"Four poster bed!"

"Library! Even better than the Diogenes Club!"

"Giant walk in freezer!"

"An actual BAR! With _real_ optics."

"A dumb waiter!"

But, as usual, Sherlock won the one-upmanship when he located the stairs down into what had been the cellar.

"John! Get off the waterbed and come down here – "

"There isn`t a w – oh, my life."

As he cornered the cellar steps, he saw the shimmering, reflected glow in the curved brick roof. A slight smell of chlorine and the other-wordly glimmer of underwater lighting. Surrounded by curved arches and supported by brick pillars; it was almost ethereal. A gentle hum emitted from the generator.

"A swimming pool," breathes John. "I _told_ you we were very good friends."

**x0x0x0x0x0x**

The freezer is well-stocked and James Dodd has told John to help himself, since shops there were a tad sparser than in central London. After dinner, they sit in the vast library/bar and have port (but no cigar), watching the sunset through the large patio doors which lead into a greenhouse of some kind. John hopes there is a timed sprinkler in there, since Sherlock could (and has) managed to kill a cactus by neglect. It was the kind of perfect evening, spent with a friend, where no-one has to say a thing. John has cleared up, (despite managing to cut his hand pulling out the dishwasher drawer) and all is quiet. Sherlock`s phone is pretty busy, however.

"That`s five texts in the past half hour, Sherlock. Isn`t this supposed to be a break?" He had called Mary earlier and sent her a video of the house. She was pretty envious, since she hadn't managed to get any time off herself.

Sherlock looked thoughtful, like he was deliberating something. He pushed the phone over to John.

"It`s the strangest thing. I seem to be the target of an anonymous texter. What do you make of it?"

John scrolls:

"Six texts in three days – from the same withheld number."

`Good day Sherlock – there are Many Terms for you.`

`Good day Sherlock – This Equals That.`

`Good day Sherlock – Variables – who knows how many?`

`Good day Sherlock – _who_ is your Constant?`

`Good day Sherlock – Multiply by Yourself – what happens?`

`Good day Sherlock – an Exponent of Two.`

Each text is signed with the initials – "B.M."

"Brenda Mortimer? But she`s dead."

Sherlock casts down his eyes and John wishes he could self-edit sometimes. "She`s gone, Sherlock, so – who - ?"

"I`m not sure, but I know it`s linked to the last `Angels Wings` card. Same initials. _Aprendido la leccion_ - learnt their lesson.

John looks at the texts again, shaking his head. There seems to be a _mathematical_ theme of some kind.

"Are you worried about this? `Cos if you are, there is no point staying here. We should just go back to London and sor-"

Sherlock Holmes shakes his head, thoughtfully. "No, I think we should stay, for now. This is maybe somewhere I need to be." And he takes his port and his phone into the kitchen next door to speak to his pathologist.

**x0x0x0x0x0x**

It isn't until the next morning that they find the maze.

The vast lawns at the back of the house stretch out towards a large coppice of scarlet rhododendrons. To the left and right there are hugely tall shrubs. The left hand side hides an intriguing set of steps which lead down, thrillingly, to a small cove and shingly beach. On the right hand side there lies a huge conifer maze which could rival the one at Hampton Court.

As they walk into the entrance, John wonders, to himself, if a ball of string might be in order.

"Come on Ariadne," smirks Sherlock, annoyingly.

The hedges are around three feet taller than the top of Sherlock`s head and block out most of the light, so once inside, John could see just how quickly anyone can become lost. Sherlock seems to have no such worries and strides ahead with the confidence of Theseus.

After around fifteen minutes, John finds himself thinking about where he put his phone.

Once again, Sherlock chips in. "You left it on the kitchen bench. Mine is charging." He looks fiendish. "How exciting! No-one can help us."

"How do you _always_ seem to know what I`m thinking?"

"No-one telegraphs his moves quite like you, John. Your hand twitched towards your inner breast pocket ; your eyes darted back towards the house, trying to recollect your most recent moves. Come on, let`s find the middle."

Not betraying any signs of post-viral trauma, Sherlock sprints off towards his goal and John has no option but to follow him.

It is three whole hours later when the detective and the doctor are lying, hot, sweating and filthy on the pristine lawn; having _only just_ escaped the impenetrable and dense green clutches of the Tregennis maze.

John`s tongue is sticking to the roof of his mouth and his shirt, drenched in sweat, sticks to his body like cling film. Bits of actual twig and _leylandii_ are sticking out of his hair. All he can think of is how much water he is going to drink.

"If it wasn't _so_ two years ago, I would KILL you for that little adventure."

Sherlock lies flat, looking up at the sky; dirt, sweat and twigs decorating him like a scarecrow.

"I know," he grins, widely, "wasn't it just _brilliant_!"

_**Beep, beep**_. Text alert. From Sherlock`s pocket.

"Oops."

**x0x0x0x0x0x**

At exactly the same time in 221A Baker Street…

Two abandoned ladies are lamenting, whilst sharing a _demi-vat_ of Semillon.

"That house is a bloody mansion, Molly. It must have thirty rooms. A swimming pool in the basement, for God`s sake!"

Molly Hooper holds up her glass in salute. She is clearly out of practise since having Benedict. "I _hear_ you."

Mary scrabbles, ungainly, to her feet, tangling slightly in the beautiful china blue rug.

"I know what we`ll do…where`s ya lap top, Hooper?" She turns to her friend, who is already asleep; sitting on the floor with her head resting peacefully on her own sofa.


	8. Chapter 8

The eighth text reads as follows:

**`Good day Sherlock. Pattern down from a 3 to a ZERO. B.M.`**

John is thinking Sherlock should call Lestrade; or Mycroft. Sherlock is just thinking. He is still in his Mind Palace when John is startled by a polite tapping at the patio door.

A small, well-proportioned man stands there, smiling benignly at him. He has smooth, dark hair and round, brown eyes, hidden behind remarkably thick lenses. As John opens the door, he notices the man is casually dressed in odd checked trousers and is carrying a basket.

He holds out a small hand. "Dr John Watson, I presume. Of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"

John shakes. "You have the advantage, I`m afraid."

The man shuffles in embarrassment. "A thousand apologies, Doctor. I am Frisbee Sommersby." _No way_. "I am a friend of Mr Dodd. We play poker in The Crossed Serpent every Friday when he`s in town. He has told me all about you – and the bond you share."

"Ah, the perennial bond of the flying apple core."

It seems the Mind Palace was closed for the time being. John turns. Micro-frown at Sherlock.

"Mr Sommersby, this is my friend, Sh - ."

The visitor stepped eagerly across the threshold with his hand outstretched. His brown eyes were widened in excitement. _A fan_.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes, I am thrilled and privileged to meet you!" They shake and John can almost see his friend – _processing_ – the new arrival. Luckily for Frisbee, the detective is feeling convivial.

"Why don't you have a cup of tea with us, Mr Sommersby? You must be thirsty after the long walk from the town. And, unless you are on your way to your Grandmother`s cottage with some cakes in that basket, please let us accompany you to the orchard where you can pick your apples. I do believe it is rare for the Mutsu variety to grow so well in England. They do make the best pies though."

But, rather than being startled, there is something akin to hero-worship in Frisbee`s conker coloured eyes.

"There is one bakery in the town and you seem to be its baker. Flour particles around your finger nails, and a very distinctive burns pattern across your wrists, from taking baking trays out of a large oven. Your checked trousers are the particular kind worn by chefs and kitchen workers. You didn't have time to change them, since you knew how long it would take to walk here before dark. You do not drive since you are poorly sighted (almost totally blind in one eye) and would almost definitely fail a driving test."

Worried about Frisbee Sommersby`s levels of excitement at meeting a real life reasoning and observing machine, John decides to interject.

"If, of course, you are a deep sea fisherman with four children and a penchant for monster truck racing, then please feel free to mention it."

Sherlock shoots him a withering look, but says nothing, particularly since the maze _incident_.

By the time Frisbee Sommersby has left, with his basket full of Mutsu apples from the Tregennis orchard, he is one happy man and is outlining the promise of a variety of baked good if they happen upon "The Life of Pie" during the week.

"At least try one of my unique Pascal pasties, Mr Holmes. I insist. They are famed in these parts."

John is more than slightly surprised when Sherlock issues an open invitation for Frisbee to `pop over` at `any time`. Very uncharacteristic of the man who doesn't _do_ socialising.

Frisbee was all of a flutter.

"I would be _honoured_! I`ve only ever been in the conservatory and gardens in the past."

Later: "Seems like _you_ have a fan-boy in the village, then. What a great name. He sounds like a surfer."

Again, Sherlock Holmes is thoughtful. Although John has no idea, a tumble dryer of thoughts are currently whirring around his superb brain, looking for a resting place. Sherlock is quite confident that it is now only a matter of time.

_xo xo xo xo xo xo_

Things are _not_ going well.

Two babies are crying, loudly. Mary and John Watson are gesticulating at each other with uncharacteristic vehemence from the relative privacy of the huge conservatory. Molly Hooper is in tears and Sherlock Holmes is _furious_.

All storms must pass, however, and within an hour, some balance is restored. The babies are, mercifully, sleeping, after the longest journey of their lives, so far. Mary has managed to make John Watson laugh out loud, after which, any argument was pointless, so they have a cup of tea instead.

"I`m sorry, I should have told you, but we couldn't resist the surprise factor."

"Ah, shit… should`ve asked you anyway." John stands up and walks slowly towards the magnificent marble fireplace in the drawing room. "A video was probably rubbing your nose in it."

"Little bit." Mary smiles at her husband; so _glad_ he is her husband.

"How`d you find the addr – oh, look who I`m talking to…of course you can hack into my Facebook."

Sheepish Mary. "We were a bit – drunk." John laughs.

"Want to come down to the pool? I`m staying out of Sherlock`s way. He is really mad. Poor Molly."

Mary has her serious face. "Has he been entirely open with you about his reasons for coming on this – break?"

"Well…he seemed fine yesterday…high spirits. Getting lost and meeting the locals. I was pleased he`d actually taken my advice, for once."

Mary walks over to the huge sashed window, and looks out over the impressive, sweeping drive, lined with lime trees.

"Ah, something is wrong here, John – and Sherlock knows it. He`s not telling you everything."

_xo xo xo xo xo xo_

John starts. Where the hell is he? Reflections on the curved ceiling and a gentle hum. He`s fallen asleep on one of the loungers arranged around the edge of the pool. God! He _is_ getting old. Still, it _is_ so peaceful down here. Calm and contained by ancient brick walls. Sub-terranean. Submerged beneath the earth. Womb-like. Safe. _Fanciful_? Well, he _is_ a world-renowned blogger. Nearing twenty five thousand hits, and counting.

John twists himself over onto his side to face the lit pool. No other lights are on and the effect is somewhat like an underground cavern and mystical, magical pool. A touch of the _Hobbit_, perhaps.

He is about to get up to find the others when – a noise. Someone is entering from the stairs. It`s Molly. In a swimsuit, carrying Benedict. John almost calls to her, but the light from the pool highlights the planes of her face, and he decides against it. She may need some time to herself. He wonders if he can slide out of the door at the back without her seeing him and feeling embarrassed. He has _never_ heard Sherlock raise his voice to her before that day.

She carefully descends the stone steps into the shallow end; gradually submerging her pale calves, thighs, body and, eventually, shoulders into the calm, clear aquamarine water.

"Ooh, Ben…look, it's a cave!" She whispers. "We can _swim_ in the cave. Shall we swim and find some _dragons_?"

Benedict squeaks his baby squeaks, splashing his tiny hands and feet to feel them swooshing up the water. Molly pulls him around, back and forth, until he squeals in excitement. John is paralysed; torn between sneaking out and giving Molly some privacy, and watching them. It is too dark for Molly to see him.

In the next moment, John no longer has a choice. The upper door creaks and Sherlock descends the stairs. He is barefoot; wearing a black dressing gown and carrying – a violin?

As Sherlock nears the pool`s edge, John sees his face is set, like Molly`s had been; then, as he takes in the scene, his countenance completely changes. And he smiles.

Molly stops swooshing her son, gathers him to her body and stands to face Sherlock. He sits down, on the edge of the pool, sinking his feet and legs into the rippling water.

"You brought my violin." He is looking directly into her face. "And my son."

"Yes, Sherlock, I did." A beat.

"I have been – a – "

"Git?"

"I was going to say `a prick`, but you, as ever, are the kinder version. I am _sorry_, Molly. I was surprised when you arrived and … there are – _things_ – I don`t want you and Ben to be a part of here."

"This isn't just a holiday, is it?"

"I don`t think so."

Another moment passes.

"I love that you brought my violin." He raises it to his neck and starts to play. In the echoing chamber of the pool room, it is incandescently, hauntingly beautiful. It takes John a few moments to recognise it.

_Nightswimming deserves a quiet night_  
_The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago,_  
_Turned around backwards so the windshield shows_  
_Every streetlight reveals the picture in reverse_

R.E.M. A new departure for Sherlock`s repertoire. Who knew?

_I'm not sure all these people understand_  
_It's not like years ago,_  
_The fear of getting caught,_  
_Of recklessness and water_  
_They cannot see me naked_  
_These things, they go away,_  
_Replaced by everyday_

Benedict has stopped his splashing and is transfixed by the music. And his father. John`s hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Still, he can`t move.

_Nightswimming, remembering that night_  
_September's coming soon_  
_I'm pining for the moon_  
_And what if there were two_  
_Side by side in orbit_  
_Around the fairest sun?_  
_ That bright, tight forever drum__ Could not describe nightswimming._

_ watch?v=yjQmv1NNii8 _

As Sherlock puts down the violin, Molly wades towards him and he lowers into the water, his dressing gown floating around him like an oil spill. The last thing John sees as he eases himself out of the side door, is the three of them, standing close, in the glowing phosphorescence.


	9. Chapter 9

The evening brings a darkening and lowering of the sky and purple, bruised-looking clouds, heavy with intent. By six, the rumble has begun and heavy, two-pence sized raindrops begin to spot the parched looking patio. A _real _storm has hit the Lizard Peninsula.

Sherlock has received no further anonymous texts since number eight, so John starts as his friend`s text alert beeps.

"It`s Lestrade. He has news about the Mortimer case."

"Does that man _ever_ go home? He`s at work every hour God sends."

"Not _this_ hour. He`s at the front door, asking to be let in. Getting soaked, apparently." Remarks Sherlock, casually.

Greg Lestrade warms his hands on the coffee Molly has placed there. He resembles a damp badger.

"I was at the Conference in Truro anyway tomorrow, so I thought I`d come down and talk this through with you, Sherlock. Not a bad little bolt-hole, I must say. Strewth! You`ll be telling me next you`ve a pool … ooh, careful with that cup, Molly."

"Mycroft."

"No, it`s Greg."

Sherlock smiles. "I mean, Mycroft, _my brother_, has told you to drop in on me."

For a policeman, Lestrade is possibly the worst liar ever. "Well, no, of course – I mean…why would…? Ah, bugger it. I`m doing him a favour, Sherlock. I was in Truro and he suggested I could check in with you."

John knew what Mycroft`s _suggestion_s took the form of. He felt a little sorry for Greg.

"Upshot is, we`ve arrested two more drug mules from the Hermano cartel."

Sherlock sat up.

"Truth be told, they handed themselves in. Had huge memory losses and were getting serious flashbacks with some disturbing hints about what may have been going on. Case has been in the papers (you may have noticed) which prompted them coming in."

"Similar to Brenda Mortimer?"

"_Exactly_ the same. Even had the business cards and cocaine residue in their belongings. We didn`t have you there to – er – put them `under` but we did give them a polygraph test. Proper lie detector…same as the FBI."

"And?"

"They were telling the truth. Their memories had been – messed with. Altered. Other than the snippets they had, they had no recollection of their crimes. Never seen anything like it."

"Amnesiac couriers." Mused Sherlock. "Mary?"

Mary Watson knows what he is asking her. She shakes her head. "A new one on me. I know about mind wipes and other monkeying around with the cerebral cortex, but not really like this. It`s very unusual for any kind of recall to seep through. Once wiped, stays wiped. Even with hypnosis."

Although Greg Lestrade is a little agog at this kind of chit-chat coming from a doctor`s receptionist, he knows better than to muddy any waters swirling around the life of Sherlock Holmes, and continues.

"This case has had more than its fair share of untied loose ends. I hate a loose end."

"So," remarks Sherlock, "do I."

By eight o`clock, the storm had taken on the force of a demon wind, slicing through the peninsular with its destructive onslaught of torrential rain, thunder and dazzling cracks of lighting, splitting the damaged sky.

"Greg, you can`t think of travelling in this. You have to stay here tonight. It`s bloody Armageddon out there."

Lestrade was wistfully thinking about the complimentary mini-bar back at the hotel. A night free of the wife nagging and wall to wall `Made in Chelsea` had been the carrot at the end of a very long day. Still. He glanced at the hoolie raging outside. This wasn't exactly roughing it. But he was pretty sure Sherlock Holmes was no fan of `Made in Chelsea`.

"We have quite the range of optics here, Greg." Smiles Mary, tipping the balance.

"So, let me get this straight…we have a genius detective, a Scotland Yard inspector; two research doctors and a – very resourceful – woman right here, but none of us can locate the fuse box. Excellent."

John Watson is stressed. It has been fifteen minutes since the storm has shorted the power to Tregennis Lodge and all they have is Sherlock`s lighter and Lestrade`s key fob light. Mercifully, the babies haven't stirred.

Sherlock eventually traces the fuse box to a small cupboard in the library. John hopes his mind palace includes an electrician`s handbook.

"All blown, with no spares. I think this was last up-dated when the Armada was sighted off Lizard Point in 1588."

"Looks like it`s candles until morning," decides Mary. "How exciting!"

I wake up with a start and realise in a nanosecond what is different. The silence. The storm appears to have blown itself out and all I can hear are seagulls shrieking and my son, Benedict, breathing softly next to my head. His mother is nowhere to be seen. A far away crashing of waves, raking across the shingle beach reminds me where we are; and why _they_ have to leave, as soon as possible. He has been remarkably patient with me (look - I _am_ seeing this, and I _appreciate_ it) so today is the day I must speak to John Watson and tell him about the conversation I had with my brother, seven weeks ago, atop St. Bart`s Hospital.

Pulling on my (still damp) dressing gown, I look at Ben. He seems ok (it will be hugely beneficial to all when he can speak to me) and pad down the back stairs to find the kitchen and a kettle.

"Hah, morning Sherlock. Great night last night. Must have sunk a few though. Can`t recollect … much. You look like a giant crow, by the way."

I forget to pretend to smile at, what I imagine to be a joke by the inspector. "I beg to differ, Lestrade. You had coffee and tea all night. I remember. You said you needed a clear head for the conference this morning."

As I place the kettle on the Aga, I note Lestrade`s puzzled demeanour and head shake. "Lestrade, it is far more usual to forget you were drunk that to forget you were sober. Which, incidentally, you were. In addition, I will take a cheque if you don`t have the cash on you."

"A cheque? For what?"

I am now suspecting feigned pseudo-drunken memory loss to avoid paying up a debt.

"Last night, Geoff, I won £49.71 from you at poker. I also won £23.56 from John and owe Mary £17.34. Molly refuses to play me."

Lestrade is now beginning to bore me, scratching his head and frowning repeatedly. I busy myself with the kettle and consider.

"Sherlock, I really don`t – "

Mercifully, Molly walks in. Her face, however, is puckered with – confusion? I employ my empathy mind palace, as I am training myself to do, with emotional dealings.

Dressing gown – not her own. Mary`s? Also, strange slippers and creases on the side of her face. I recall the couch in John and Mary`s bedroom has a draylon cover with deep ridges. They do seem a match for Molly`s face. She also seems to have a strangely chemical aroma about her. Dark smudges on her inner wrists and black under the nails, as well as a small cut near her thumb. Her gown cord is knotted hurriedly and haphazardly. It really is rather puzzling; for a second.

"Molly, why did you spend the night on John and Mary`s couch and get up in the night to clean the Aga?"

I should be used to _that_ look people give me, but I don`t like seeing it on Molly. Anymore.

"Sherlock, I`ve just woken up in their room and I smell like l`ve done what you`ve just said, but I don`t remember a SINGLE thing! I`m frightened! What`s happening?"

Lestrade has walked across and opened the Aga door. "Spotless." He says.

Everyone is being so near to hysteria, I can barely focus and collate my thoughts.

"Sherlock, NONE of us, except YOU, have any recollection about what went on last night between around 8.30 and this morning. I woke up soaking wet and naked by the side of the pool! Mary has a very worrying history on her laptop. If anyone from the Pentagon calls this morning, don`t – "

The wittering is unbearable.

"SHUT UP! All of you! I can`t _think_!" Mercifully, they shut up. I open my eyes and decide to tell.

They stare at me. Expecting and trusting.

_Aren`t ordinary people adorable?_

"Last night, we played poker. Lost; lost; won. Molly, you were complaining, erroneously, I feel, that the kitchen wasn't quite hygienic enough for the babies. Mary joked that maybe you should give it a going over. John; you were commenting on your lack of fitness since your marriage. I concurred and suggested you swim fifty lengths a day until sufficient calories were burnt. Mary, Lestrade was fishing to find out more about your hacking skills. He bet you £50 you couldn't hack into several major government organisations. None of you had drunk more than a glass of wine or beer each. I went upstairs to see what possible dangers could have befallen an immobile infant in a huge cot and decided I was tired and went to bed. What you all did after that is fairly obvious. Why you did it is less so."

As I could have predicted, they all sit there, staring at me, like goldfish.

"If it makes you feel any better, however, I don`t think you are losing your minds. _Permanently_."

John: "Wha - ?"

"I think you were drugged."


	10. Chapter 10

The first time that Molly Hooper imagined Sherlock Holmes giving her flowers was in no way like _this_.

They all stand in the airy, bright greenhouse; beneath Victorian glass and metal, whilst a jungle of intertwining plant life stretches across their heads. Humid and pungent with damp earth, it could have been a forest; a jungle. Mary half expects to see a rainbow coloured parrot fly through the vines.

Sherlock is reaching up and pulling down a flower, showing it to Molly. It is large, pure white and trumpet shaped with a subtle yet sweet scent. A lily?

"It`s _not_ a lily." Says Sherlock, grimly. Molly passes it to John, who turns it over to Mary. Lestrade has regretfully left for Truro, but has promised to `check in` later.

"And we are picking flowers this morning for – _why_, Sherlock?" John`s good humour is being stretched to its limits. Waking up next to a swimming pool was becoming distressingly habit-forming.

"Imagine the worst _roofie_ you have ever experienced. You are completely conscious and articulate, yet your free will has been eliminated. You are utterly open to any suggestion made to you by anyone else. You know it may be wrong, but you are powerless to resist. Even the most hardened drug dealers of Colombia are afraid to fall asleep under the _Borracherro_ tree, since that is where this flower grows – the Angel Trumpet, or better known as `_Colombian Devil`s Breath_`."

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

"_Where_ did you manage pack a mini-Skylab? You are a _terrible_ packer!"

Sherlock Holmes is setting up a compact version of his Baker Street microscope. Somehow there is also a case of slides and ampoules of chemicals in a very discreet black casket.

"It _is_ rather strange that the smaller things are, the more they can cost. _Portable_ is the new black, John."

"Pffft!"

"In addition, I have a new app on my phone – a bit like _Shazham_ for microscopes. `_Analysethatslide`_. It would have saved years of study at college."

"Now you are just making it up – as if a _devil lily_ wasn't enough…"

Sherlock Holmes stops and gives John the benefit of his most glacial stare.

"Governments use this app in the war against biohazards and chemical warfare. Mycroft had it adapted for the _Haystack_ software. And John, I would never lie about this plant. Although it has a similar density and chemical development to cocaine, there is absolutely nothing recreational about it."

John knows when his friend is this – _emotionally charged_ – he should really listen. He sits down at the kitchen island.

"So, you are saying that this – this plant – turned us all into _zombies_ last night? Whatever anyone suggested, we just did it – regardless of safety or advisability." It all starts to sink in. "My GOD – anything could have happened…I still daren't reboot Mary`s lap top…"

Sherlock has resumed calibrating his portable centrifuge and is shaking his head.

"Zombie slaves…" He looks up at John. "So, the question remains – where will we find your zombie master?"

"Scolpolamaine." States Molly, reading Sherlock`s smartphone, as she holds it over the slide. "It really DOES work – amazing."

Sherlock grinds the pestle and mortar (John, reflecting he will be buying a new one for James Dodd before they leave). "It suits the traveller, but a more traditional analysis would probably be advisable back at home."

Mary bursts into the kitchen; Sholto in one hand and her smartphone in the other.

"Sherlock, this is serious – listen to this - `_A hazardous drug that eliminates free will and can wipe the memory of its victims is currently being dealt on the streets of Colombia. The drug is called scopolamine, but is colloquially known as 'The Devil's Breath,' and is derived from a particular type of tree common to South America. Stories surrounding the drug are the stuff of urban legends, with some telling horror stories of how people were raped, forced to empty their bank accounts, and even coerced into giving up an organ.`"_

"I know it`s serious, which is why I am giving it my utmost attention as we speak."

"You _knew_ those plants were growing in there! You knew what they could do! Why didn't you warn us?"

Sherlock lifts his goggles, exasperated, yet trying – _really trying_ – to empathise.

"Mary. My knowledge of botany is variable. Poisons; opiates etc. – fine – but I have no interest at all in practical gardening. John would testify that I hadn`t been in the greenhouse once since we arrived."

"He did once kill a cactus."

"The only reason I went in there this morning was to test out an idea." Sherlock takes off his gloves and comes around the counter to where Mary stands; phone and baby still held tight.

"Over the past two months or so, my caseload has been dominated by the plant world. Coca plants; Water Hemlock; Suicide trees; now this beautiful and dangerous member of the _nightshade_ family. Last night, you were all affected by this. It actually stops new memories from forming, so you had no recollection of what you did."

And, almost as if choreographed, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes step over to the frightened mother and simultaneously relieve her of both baby and phone, at exactly the same time as Molly Hooper places a cup of sweet tea in her hands.

"Go team," says Mary, weakly, as she sinks onto a stool.

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

During the next hour, Sherlock is a hive of activity. He examines every lampshade in the house; then moved onto the air vents and extractor fans in the kitchen. Eventually, he calls them there, where he is sitting next to a large candelabra and a mini-microscope.

John can`t resist. "It was Sherlock, in the kitchen, with the candlestick."

Sherlock frowns. He _can`t_ joke about Cluedo.

"Analysis shows, this is your zombie master."

They stare at the candelabra.

"Last night`s storm supposedly cut out our power. We needed to use candles and, ultimately, we needed to blow them out."

Blank faces. Sherlock tries again.

"YOU needed to blow them out. Before bed. I went to bed early, so I, inadvertently, avoided getting anywhere near."

He runs a gloved finger around each candle and holds it out. A slight tinge of brown powder is evident.

"I found this powder on every candle stick on the lower floor."

"Oh my God – " Mary.

"_Scolpolamine_, within the powdered root of the Devil`s Breath flower, was blown and inhaled by you all when you extinguished the candles last night. There was no snuffer. I checked. Suggestions became realities."

Sherlock is so pleased at identifying the toxin that it takes him a few moments to recognise dazed horror amongst his audience.

"One South American woman met a man in a bar, somehow ingested Scolpolamine, and helped him to load her and her boyfriend`s belongings, furniture and life savings into his van before he drove away with everything she had." Sherlock glances, hoping for reaction. "So – you see … could have been worse."


	11. Chapter 11

"I refuse to tuck my trousers into my sock. This is Saville Row."

"Sherlock, it`s either this, or the tandem."

Riding through the Cornish country lanes after a storm, however, wipes away any doubts or reluctant bike riding. High hedgerows tower over their heads; twittering birds swoop low to tend their chicks – almost brushing passed their shoulders. Bees buzz in the early summer breeze and a bright blue sky allows unhindered rays to dapple the road ahead of them. The only vehicle to pass the two men the whole way into Helston, is a rickety cart, drawn by a dappled roan and an ancient mariner.

His Cornish accent is as clotted as the thickest of creams. "Hey, lads, you headed for the town?"

John changes down a gear on his borrowed machine with scarcely a wobble. "We are. We need a few supplies."

"Pies, you say? Well, you make sure you call in on the Professor. Best Cornish pasties this side of Truro an` no mistaking it."

And he waves them on his way.

As with the rest of the busy Cornish town, "The Life of Pie" is bustling with folk about their business. A small bell tinkles as they enter the bakery and agreeable aromas meet them. As John turns away from his, quite lengthy, appreciative glance at the pies and bread, he notices Sherlock Holmes swiping across his phone.

"You taking holiday snaps now?"

"Not exactly. Maybe something for your blog later, though."

Although John is tense and on high alert since the morning`s revelations, he knows Sherlock is on the verge of – telling him something. Else. All the usual signs were there. He could wait. He was patient – _to a point_.

Frisbee Sommersby doesn't seem to be around and a young, rosy-cheeked fair haired girl with intricate head plaits, is trying her best to serve the jostling throng of customers.

"Ah, Mrs Trelawny, you DID say four pasties? I`m so sorry – we`re just so busy this morning and Mr Sommersby is busy with the yeast mix…Oh, Joe, Joe!" She called to a skinny teenager just leaving with a packed bag. "I haven't given you your change yet - !"

Within a moment, a small, bespectacled baker has emerged from the back of the shop. The girl immediately turns from her customers and glances across at him.

"Jessica, please allow me to assist you."

And although his tone is smooth and amiable and his smile in place, the girl`s eyes show only one emotion –

Fear.

Frisbee Sommersby is the very epitome of delighted to see Tregennis Lodge`s two most recent tenants. Giving Jessica back free reign in the shop after the lunch time rush, he busies himself in his charming garden room, making tea and slicing a freshly baked cherry pie for his guests.

"Mr Holmes; Dr Watson, I felt SURE I would see you again soon. Sure of it! How exciting that you sought me out in my little shop."

He poured and passed a cup to Sherlock, who glances down at the proffered hand.

"That`s quite a nasty scrape at the base of your thumb. Occupational hazard?"

Frisbee examined his thumb with apparent interest. "Oh, an errant knife; apple peeling. Those Mustu apple pies have been a sell out. I must thank you both."

"And James," added John, with a smile.

"Of course. Of course."

The chink of china and Cornish tin as tea is stirred. A clock ticks above the fire place and a fly buzzes erratically, against the large patio doors. Sherlock puts down his cup.

"What a very charming painting, Mr Sommersby. Is it a famous work?"

John turned and noticed, for the first time, a small, classically painted picture of a red-haired girl of around twelve years old, cuddling a humble looking lamb, atop a small pillar. She is looking, lips slightly parted, towards the painter – the picture of young innocence and adoration. Frisbee seems less of a surfer with every passing moment.

"That? Oh, I think not, Mr Holmes. A reprint or reproduction, of a little known artist. I don't even know his name, I`m afraid. An impertinent little scribble, I fear."

Sherlock has stood and crossed the room to view the painting briefly, before Frisbee proffers him the pie and offers a tour of the garden.

Sherlock and John quite quickly make their excuses and leave. Both have had quite enough botany for the time being. Frisbee cannot help but press the remainder of the cherry pie upon them. Plate and all.

John is struggling manfully with the rusted bicycle lock when he looks up to find Sherlock – somewhere else. Glancing across, he spots him by the gates of St. James Church. Talking to a familiar young, blonde woman with plaits in her hair.

Riding back through the leafy lanes has taken a detour into a grass field, left to fallow. Sherlock Holmes has leant the bicycle against a two hundred year old oak tree and is sitting beneath it, chewing a piece of grass and looking like he _really_ needs a cigarette. John sits down next to him.

"You`d better fill me in then," he says.

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

_Did you miss me_?

Mycroft Holmes has concerns for his brother, who`s loss would almost certainly break his shrunken and under-used heart. Although sniping at each other is the Holmes` boys _raison d`etre_; Mycroft sits on the roof of Bart`s and decides that Sherlock needs to recuperate; to shake off his uber-virus and regain himself. He needs a case. And, a dose of the truth, about Jim Moriarty.

"The time has come, little brother."

Sherlock looks over his sunglasses again. "Tired of life, at last, Mycroft? Off you pop then. Toodle-pip. Not as much of a drop as you might th – "

"Sherlock." His voice cuts through the spring air like a scimitar.

"I am very much afraid that there is a new Moriarty in town."

So _many_ people met Jim (Rich Brook) Moriarty. He was _such_ a show-off. Molly Hooper even dated him. He was live on all the world`s TV channels when he broke into the Bank of England and Pentonville. When he was arrested in the Tower, his infamy nearly broke the internet. His face, on a thousand screens; his name on a thousand lips. His antecedents, however, were nowhere to be seen. Where had he come from? No friends or family; no school or university or Facebook account. No past. Jim Moriarty did deal with the criminals of the world. He was their consultant and their passport to ill-gotten gains from Timbuktu to Tobago. When he held the hand of Sherlock Holmes and put a gun inside his own mouth, it was the public death of a very public criminal life. And all that time, no-one ever knew that the public face also had a private puppeteer. Jim Moriarty was not a lone gun atop the grassy knoll. He himself had a co-conspirator. _A confidante_. A man he could turn to when all else was at an end.

A brother.


	12. Chapter 12

"A criminal strain runs in the blood." Mycroft faces his little brother with a grave demeanour.

Professor Moriarty is the older and surviving brother of James. He is the real deal. A criminal mind, so astute and unique; a ghost amongst the underworld and sub culture of law-breakers. Almost a legend – like Bigfoot or the Hounds of Baskerville. A psychopathic master of crime and user of terrorist techniques to gain his ends. Machiavellian to the end; arrogant; manipulative; calculating – utterly ruthless. A suave demeanour hides a sadistic and egotistic centre which has operated discreetly, beneath the recognition and understanding of the whole world. Until now. Until this day, on this roof. Mycroft breaks his cover to his _own_ brother.

"One of the terrorist cell you exposed in Tibet became the weakest link in the invisible chain connecting Professor Moriarty to his brother`s dealings."

"Culverton Smith." Sherlock`s tone is smooth, but Mycroft sees how he has blanched beneath the glasses.

"Indeed. Through him, we discover that Professor Moriarty really does exist. Hereditary tendencies of the most diabolical kind, Sherlock. Yet, so many steps separate him from the pull upon the thread; we have very little firm grasp. He is ethereal – a will-o-the-wisp…"

_And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray,  
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,  
There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—  
But it's useless to investigate—Macavity's not there!  
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:  
It must have been Macavity!'—but he's a mile away.  
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;  
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums._

_T.S. Eliot_

Professor Moriarty is a mathematical genius. One of his guises has been the Chair at Durham University where his Treatise upon the Binomial Theorem gained him respect and many published works. He is believed to be over sixty years old, but remains fit, agile and extremely observant. He has the mind and attention to detail of a genius and the moral compass of a psychopath. Just like his younger brother, the Professor likes to _play_. Mycroft has no photographs, even via _Haystack_. There are no living witnesses to his existence – merely reportage and heresay.

Sherlock has recovered some of his composure. He doesn't reach for a drink though – he doesn't trust his shaking hand.

"So, why are you telling me this now, brother of mine? Clearly, there has been a – whisper?"

"A murmuring," Mycroft acquiesces. "Incredibly, a locally placed informant has reported a twitch upon the thread. In England – to be precise - at its furthest possible tip…as if the man is ready for escape at the slightest tremor."

Cornwall.

"John Watson will soon be asking you to accompany him to a beautiful house in Tredannick Woollas, near the Lizard`s point. It will be the perfect spot for your…observations."

"How will I find him?"

"Oh, I expect him to come to you."

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Back in the field, there is clearly some consternation on the part of John Watson.

"The house! Lt. James M. Dodd! It`s not his house is it?"

And it is little comfort to Sherlock that he doesn't even need his Empathy Mind Palace to feel for his friend.

"James M. Dodd died in an insurgence three months after you left Afghanistan, John. Colonel Sebastian Moran, the Professor`s link to the world, took on James` persona to lure you here. To lure me."

John has his head in his hands. He almost feels like rocking. He cannot believe this day. And, as a friend of Sherlock Holmes, he has had more than his fair share of `_rocking-in-a-darkened-room_` days.

"He used me – to get to you…Mary was right – Facebook _is_ the work of the devil!"

He is thinking, and Sherlock gives him time. He can be patient. _To a point_.

"But why - ? Why, in God`s name, Sherlock, did you come with me? If you and Mycroft knew it was a trap, why have we walked right into it?"

The rocking man suddenly stops short and Sherlock knows the penny has dropped, at last.

"Bloody hell," whispers John Watson. "Bait. We are … _bait_."

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Many hours and many, many words later, Mary Watson lies in bed, opposite her exhausted husband. She is holding his face in her hands and trying to calm his racing heart.

"A bear that sees a trap cannot be caught."

"That in the hit man`s handbook, is it?" His eyes are bleary and heart is heavy. He fears for the danger they could be in.

"Sherlock has put the fear of God into you about this man, hasn't he?"

"I saw Moriarty, version 1. I really don't need to be introduced to the mark 2 model, with increased insanity and evil bolt-ons."

Mary nestles her head on his chest and speaks in a low whisper.

"John, I was terrified when Sherlock showed us that devil`s breath powder stuff. More than anything in the world, I am afraid of losing my mind – my own free will. It`s my biggest fear. But I am _not_ afraid of a sixty year old maths teacher with an ASBO…I think, between us, we can probably handle him."

_Free will? Don`t ever let Sherlock Holmes hold your hand, then_.

John watches his beautiful, unique and slightly insane ex-killer of a wife in the semi-darkness of the Cornish night, and doesn't think he`s ever loved her more.

In a bed across the landing…

Sherlock Holmes lies across the huge four poster bed in the very centre of his Mind Palace. Sifting through the events of the past few months; filing and collating; checking and cross-referencing…he has to be careful. One cannot twist facts to suit theories, _or_ theories to suit facts. His mind is buzzing and jarring against the walls within the Palace…Moriarty, the older brother. He had known even before Mycroft had confirmed it. Culverton Smith had responded in the end, when Sherlock had found his _pressure point_… The Moriarty family tree. The Irish immigrants, who had left their home town under a cloud of suspicion over a hundred years ago. A criminal strain in the blood – indeed. Blood is thicker than water. Blood will out. Blood will have blood. Scars run deep and the Professor will be unable to resist finishing the man who finished his own brother, and almost his entire livelihood…

Sherlock feels something brush across his face and neck and his Palace doors slam shut. He opens his eyes and the marmoset-brown eyes of Molly Hooper are staring down into his; her silken hair drapes across his chest. He feels his yammering heart imperceptibly slow down. She is so close, he can feel her breath upon his skin and a strange and comforting calmness washes over him.

"Where were you?" She whispers, smoothing the hair from his eyes.

"Somewhere you don`t want to go to." He whispers back. His voice almost catches – how does she _do _this to him?

"I played my violin for you – _in the water_. I played my violin in the water for _you_, Molly. Am I insane?"

"A little, maybe," she reflects, resting her head on his chest and hearing his heart resume its regular beat.

"But maybe that`s just my type."


	13. Chapter 13

`Good day Sherlock – there are Many Terms for you.`

`Good day Sherlock – This Equals That.`

`Good day Sherlock – Variables – who knows how many?`

`Good day Sherlock – _who_ is your Constant?`

`Good day Sherlock – Multiply by Yourself – what happens?`

`Good day Sherlock – an Exponent of Two.`

`Good day Sherlock. Pattern down from a 3 to a ZERO.

"Well, he`s polite anyway." Thus, Scotland Yard`s finest gives his opinion on Sherlock`s mystery texter. Perhaps not such a mystery anymore, however.

Sherlock takes his phone form Lestrade, considering.

"The Binomial Theorem. That is what it is. He is showboating to me. He is _taunting_."

He gets up and throws open the patio doors into the balmy Cornish evening. The hazy sun is settling into the golds, scarlets and oranges of a spectacular looking sunset. Birds are chirruping in and around the lawn and rhododendron bushes.

"Sounds kinda familiar." Despite the evening, John is chilled to the bone.

"`Many Terms` indicates a polynomial, many numbered, pattern. `This equals That` is just another way of saying an equation. A `Variable` - a number we have yet to find and `Constants` are known numbers on their own."

"That bit does worry me, Sherlock." Lestrade rubs his chin, thoughtfully. "Does he know about – your new `situation`? Molly. And Benedict."

John often wonders how _anyone_ could define Sherlock`s `new situation` - including Sherlock himself.

"I would imagine a man who knows every criminal movement on the planet would probably be aware of my – _circumstances_. The question is, do I send them away, to somewhere I can`t physically protect them, or do I keep them with me?" He had deleted the memory of Mycroft`s offer of the Lear. It seems he had answered his own dilemma. "They stay _here_, with _me_."

Truth be told, John and Lestrade are a little choked up by this.

"`An Exponent of Two` - the number of multiplications possible to a number, for example, squared is a number multiplied twice. He could be referring to John and myself, or Molly. It isn't clear."

"What about the last one - `Pattern down from a three to a zero`?"

Lestrade and John looked at each other. That was the most chilling.

"I will give you an example," continues Sherlock, picking up Lestrade`s tablet and a stylus.

a3 + 3a2b + 3ab2 + b3

He draws circles around the a3, the a2 and the 3a and the b, then:

a3 + 3a2b + 3ab2 + b3

3 2 1 0

"This is the Binomial pattern – the values reduce each time within the equation."

Lestrade shakes his head.

"Well, cheers for the maths lesson, Sherlock, but these texts sound like threats to me. This guy, if he is as dangerous as he sounds – does he not want to wipe you – and your family out? Reducing three to one?"

For a microsecond, Sherlock thinks of his parents and Mycroft, then – no – he has _another family_. He has something real to lose. 

** x**

"Sherlock, John…." Molly Hooper calls from the garden. She is showing Benedict the maze. "There is a man on the beach. I _think_ he`s watching the house."

Running.

Sherlock is still wearing his lab coat as both men race, erupting from the patio doors into the back garden. Molly points towards the sea.

"South east. Around 500 metres."

The adrenaline has kicked in. John half jumps, half falls down the wooden step ladder to the shingle cove. Sherlock is ahead of him by around 10 metres and is racing across the shingle in the direction of a huge granite archway. He is barefoot. John`s brain can only just factor how much the sharp shingle must hurt, yet he shows no signs of suffering or slowing down.

In the distance, the large, dark silhouette of a man is ambling through the archway. He suddenly forks right and disappears into the sea grasses which border the beach. By the time John, panting like Sea Biscuit, catches up with Sherlock, the intruder is gone. Sherlock is sitting amongst the pebbles, breathing hard; eyes like flints. His feet are bleeding, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"He`ll be back," is all he says. 

** x**

It is Greg Lestrade`s last night at Tregennis Lodge and he has offered to babysit.

"I think I may be a little bit in love with you," whispers Mary Watson, as she wafts past him on the way to the car he is lending them for the evening.

"Stressful time for you all. Least I can do. Sherlock…" his voice is a whisper and Mary leans closer. "Sherlock needs to find the _lie of the land_. Meet the locals. Find a criminal genius."

Mary nods and opens the door of Lestrade`s hired Megane. "No worries. We`ll text you when we spot him."

The Crossed Serpent in Helston was rustic to the point of being a Harry Potter film set. Thatched roof – check; wattle (and, no doubt) daub walls – check; huge oak door; nooks and crannies; inglenook fire place and flickering candlelight – all present and correct. The beer was brewed (organically) on the premises and the tagine of wild guinea fowl caught John`s attention from the moment he stepped across the flag-stoned floor.

"I am so happy," remarked Mary, shucking off her coat, "to get out of that house. I hardly dare breathe near those candlesticks."

Molly settles into the high-backed wooden seat, abundant with plump cushions.

"Mary, they _are_ fine now. I`ve had them in the dishwasher on 90 degrees four times. I`ve used Sherlock`s app. No trace of …_you know what_."

John Watson has returned from the bar with a tray of very inviting beverages, which he deposits firmly on the table. "That`s it for tonight. No more."

Molly: "No more? No more what?"

Sherlock has rounded the corner with several bags of quavers, one of which he present to Molly, with a secret smile which makes her cheeks pink. "No more talk of _gardening_, people. Anyone for bar billiards?"

John is very pleased to observe that, for a polymath, Sherlock Holmes is _spectacularly_ bad at darts.

People around the dart board have discreetly relocated to safer inglenooks within the Crossed Serpent, as winged implements of pointy badness are bouncing and ricocheting around with unpredictable outcomes.

"Oh Lordy," retorts Mary, "It's a good job he didn't have to save _you_ with a poison dart to the neck."

Molly is getting the next round in and is reaching across for a proffered glass of peach schnapps (Sherlock) when she is nudged in the ribs, nearly spilling it.

Hissing: "Look, Molly, over in the other bar… that man with the beard and those blue, blue eyes…he looks so familiar."

She nods in the general direction and Mary takes in a tallish man – around forty years of age, wearing a tartan shirt and – the eyes are the chilling blue of an Alaskan Malamut – almost canine…

"Marylebone Market!" They turn to each other, simultaneously. "`The Pie man`s Life`, or something?`"

"`The Pie Life`? Or …"

Sherlock Holmes, seemingly tired of harpooning innocent drinkers is suddenly standing behind them.

"`The Life of Pie`." He adds.

There is huddling in the inglenook as discussion is had.

"It`s perfectly reasonable," points out John, _sotto voce_, "to expect a man who sell Cornish pasties for a living to actually live in a Cornish town. One that sells pasties."

"It could be a coincidence – " suggests Molly Hooper.

"The universe is rarely that lazy," dismisses Sherlock, glancing again at the blue-eyed pasty seller. "You are sure it`s him?"

Molly thinks for a microsecond, then reaches into her enormous (mummy) bag. "I thought so – I saved this from months ago – was going to enter their Facebook competition … kind of glad I didn't bother now." She gives John a sympathetic half-smile. There was the same face, smiling from the leaflet, `Sam Porlock`, and, in addition, the benign smiling countenance of `head baker`, Frisbee Sommersby.

"Well, well, isn't it a small world?" Remarks Sherlock. He thinks for a nanosecond, then dives into Molly`s bag and pulls out – Lestrade`s tablet. Molly squeaks.

"Oh, oh! How did that get in there? I never – "

"Oh, I just _borrowed_ it. He won`t miss playing Angry Birds to that extent. I was going to give it back. Eventually."

Sherlock gets out the stylus and taps into an app called `Paper Art`. He opens a new tab into Facebook and finds the bogus account of Lt. James M. Dodd. Uploading `James`s` blurry picture into the app, Sherlock briskly changes the hair colour from sandy to brown, fills in the missing tooth, adds a small beard and finally alters the eyes from hazel to husky dog blue.

And `James M Dodd` is the absolute doppelganger of the pie selling man across the bar. The man who is _just leaving_.

Sherlock Holmes is standing up and sleeving on his jacket. John stands to go with him, but a hand gently pushes him back down.

"No." Sherlock is calm, quiet but firm. "I am going alone. I need you to protect everyone else. You should all go back now."

Although John is less than happy with this, he acquiesces. However, in the car park, he hands Sherlock his revolver without a word. It is only when Sherlock nods and briefly touches him on the shoulder that he gets how grateful he is. His ex-flatmate is generally _not_ a man for displays of physical affection.

"Maybe I should have brought the darts too." He whispers before sprinting off into the night.


	14. Chapter 14

As I meld into the darkness of the summer night, I run through approximately five possible outcomes to this course of action. All but one end in violence of one kind or another. The game is definitely on … _foot_.

A thousand cunning windings have brought me to this chase. The undoing of Jim Moriarty`s network has been a mighty and enormous task. Sleeping; eating; _breathing_ in the man, and _truly_ believing, with every arrest and collapse of an arms dealer; a money launderer; a drugs cartel – that I was one step closer to a better world. Then, _here_ is the genius and wonder of the thing – those two years in hiatus – the `holiday` from my life – was a false dawn – a mirage or wronged horizon. All the powers of darkness that mould and maim a great city or peaceful country town are _still _hovering; swirling; waiting for a time to regroup and re-establish. Professor Moriarty is the highest degree of _sinister_ in this world, and, just as he will not stop, _I _will not stop. I will _never_ stop – until I have ended him.

`Sam Porlock` walks briskly and confidently through the quiet streets of Helston. Hands thrust deep in pockets and head down, he hails two passers-by (I deduce, a short-sighted fisherman from Tredannick Woollas and a forty+ year old divorcee with two children with whom he has had an brief affair) and, as I expected, turns left across the square, towards `The Life of Pie`. Ah, that sign above the door. The `bridge` above the door is obviously π, or Pi, the mathematical symbol for the ratio of a circle`s circumference to its diameter – 3.14159 (or, 3.14, as most people prefer). A clever little joke; made more amusing by the pie dish Frisbee Sommersby sent home with John Watson and myself the day before. I measured the circumference of the pie dish – it was 31.4 cm. Just an observation. I may have mentioned it to John; or Lestrade, or not.

Porlock has used his key in the front door of the bakery, but I rather think I`ll take the back way in.

John Watson annoyingly refuses to read my numerous blogs on the minutiae which make up all that is great and useful in this world. However, even he will find my blog enumerating the sixteen most efficient methods of lock-picking to be a useful one. Three clicks and I am entering the home of a criminal mastermind`s even more criminally insane (and possibly vengeful) older brother. I take a moment to reflect on Mycroft`s comment:

_Oh, Sherlock, for heaven`s sake!_

But only a moment.

I gently push open the same garden door we had sat inside only a day before. A heavy, dusty velvet curtain has been drawn across which I have to push to one side. Odd. A heavy velvet curtain on a light, summer evening. It is only when I have stepped inside the home of `Frisbee Sommersby` that I realise the fatal error I have made. _Stupid_, Sherlock – what have I told you? Fools rush in…

The dust motes float upon the air in the pale light from the moonlit evening, and I know I have breathed a rather _inconvenient_ breath.

Within minutes, I feel hot and nauseous. I drop my jacket to the floor without a care. I feel a vague horror in the back of my mind. A black mist was swirling around my eyes, even though all logic told me it couldn`t be there. There was something sinister and horrible in that mist, waiting to spring out – an unspeakable dweller on the threshold of my imagination.

I must have fallen to my knees, since the carpet looked a lot closer and I could make out, through the swirling mist – a pair of black leather Eton lace ups – YSL? (_Not now, Sherlock_); then pin-stripe trouser; then Gieves and Hawkes tailoring. A far cry from chef`s checks. My hair felt like it was prickling all over my head and my tongue felt far too big for my mouth. I could only look up, up into the face of Frisbee Sommersby…

Professor Moriarty.

The voice was the same. Except, it was entirely different. Calm; smooth; quiet as dry grass swaying in the evening breeze.

"Pick him up, if you will, and sit him in the chair."

I am helpless to resist as strong, hard arms loop under my own and roughly bring me to my feet, dropping me into a nearby chair. My swimming head clears enough to see those brown eyes behind those thick glasses. Focused; sharp; hating. Hating me.

A gloved hand lifts my chin and he stares into my eyes. His brother is in his eyes and we both feel it.

"Ah, Sherlock, at last." The lizard-like head tilt too. _Extraordinary_.

I gather my sapped strength and tense, trying to stand.

A quiet command; "sit."

And I do.

"Listen."

And I do. I can`t do anything else. Internally, I am screaming out loud, but my actions are locked into my useless body. He is my zombie master and I am utterly helpless.

_Oh, Sherlock, what a mess_.

Shut up, Mycroft!

"Frisbee…Somm…ers…by." Each world is torturously slow to release from my mouth. Is this how ordinary people speak?

He smiles and sways that head again. By now he is sitting opposite me. The immaculate stillness of a man, who has the upper hand.

"Do _tell_ me, Sherlock. I know you want to. Forgive me if the Devil`s flower has dulled you somewhat – I felt the need to administer a slightly stronger dose to you. Consider it a compliment."

I focus on his face. "Frisbee – name of a … sporting discus, but…really the Frisbie Baking Company of… Bridgeport, Connecticut, made pies that were sold to many New England… colleges. S-s-students soon discovered that the empty pie tins could be tossed and caught, providing endless hours of s-sport. Yale College has even argued that - in 1820, a Yale undergraduate named Elihu Frisbie grabbed a passing collection tray from the chapel and flung it out into the… campus, thereby… be - becoming the true inventor of the Frisbie and winning glory for Yale."

These words, a mere moment on the lips for myself in the usual circumstance, seemed to take a lifetime to get out, but he had asked me, and I had to tell.

"Sssommersby…a film re-make of the book, _The Return of Martin Guerre_ … the story of a French… peasant of the 16th century who was at the centre of a famous case of imposture. He pretended to be s-someone else. Like you."

"Bravo – in spite of my little toxin, you really do have an excellent mind. My dear, late brother was so _in love_ with you Sherlock – "

My face contorted in disgust and my body rebelled by attempting to stand –

"Sit." And I sit.

"With your intellect; your quaint moral code. It amused him endlessly to play with you. Give you puzzles and watch you run around, trying to piece them together. A real shame that he loved you too much to see what you were plotting, with that _icy _brother of yours. Sherlock…"

The Professor of my nightmares stands and walks over to my chair. He pulls my chin up again and looks into my eyes; my head…

"I am NOT my brother." I cannot move as he runs a cold, gloved finger over my cheek. "But, I do like to PLAY…" Smiling again. "Tell me how I have played with you, Sherlock."

My mind palace is operating at around 40%, but I must do as he tells me.

"You have destroyed the Hermano Cartel by using drugged couriers to bring tainted drugs to this country and ensuring high profile users died. You used me to expose the cartel and bring down Jose Hermano. The couriers p…proved to be excellent mules, since their innocence gave them the confidence and assurance to breeze through customs without much – trouble. You had become t…tired of the cartel. Hermano had proved…unreliable? He was insubordinate. He had to be punished."

The Professor looks across at his accomplice, gleeful. "Poetry, Mr Moran. What did I tell you? Didn't James find us a peach? Tell me more, Mr Holmes."

"Vulnerable p-people, like Brenda Mortimer, were lured away w…with promises of easy money. You gave them cash to – to buy artefacts. Cash infused with scolpolamine – Colombian Devil`s Breath. They carried in the cicutoxin infused cocaine and ensured it reached its t…target audience."

_My _audience are grinning like buffoons. I want to rip out John`s revolver and shoot them –

_Oh, Sherlock! What have you done?_

But the revolver is still in my pocket and I don't touch it. Because, I haven't been told to.

Professor Moriarty oscillates his reptilian head to one side and speculates.

"Humanity is a seething mass of – _potential,_ Sherlock. When you start to care about individuals, you become much less effective in your field. I know that you _care_…" he makes the word sound ridiculous; obscene. "Caring has stripped you down; taken away your edge. How can you _think_ with all those feelings for the welfare of others getting in the way? Speak."

I speak. "I do not fear death, but I fear the waste of a life. People have suffered. Innocent people have _died_ because of you."

"And _you_, Sherlock. People die every day. A multitude of deaths, to make way for the new. Why shouldn't some of those deaths benefit me?"

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. _

Mycroft, stay out of my head!

"Sherlock, it just won`t do. _You only hurt the one you love_. Get up and I will show you what a clear mind does – without sentiment."

I have no option but to obey. Fight or flight? I am unable to do either.

"Now, hit my friend, Mr Moran, here."

I just have time to register the look of shocked horror on the face of Sebastian Moran before I slam a right hook into the side of his head and he falls like a redwood, crashing satisfyingly into a small nest of tables and sprawling over the carpet. I walk towards the mess of arms and legs and pull him to his feet by the collar of his jacket. He groans as I pull his left arm up, behind his back, and slam him, face first into the fireplace. His bloodied nose and rapidly blackening eye is pushed onto the wall, directly next to the painting I had noticed the day before.

Moriarty claps his hands as he surveyed the chaos of his own design and I feel sick to my stomach. As much as Moran deserves a pasting, I can be no-one`s puppet. The screaming inside my head is reaching fever pitch and I think my sadistic new acquaintance feels he has gone far enough. This time. He claps his hands.

"Release him." Moran falls to the floor again, at the feet of his master and commander. He is sore, bloodied and breathing heavily, but not one word of complaint or dissent passes his lips.

"You see, Sherlock, _this_ man is a loyal employee. He would, _unquestionably_, die for me. We have seen and done some _truly_ terrible things together and my respect for his _talents_ are boundless. But we are _not_ friends. We will _never_ be friends, because, one day, I may have to lose him in this way."

He pushes me back into the chair, and I let him. I already knew the owner of "The Life of Pie" was a sadist. Upon leaving the shop the day before, I had caught up with Jessica, `Frisbee`s` assistant. Her fear of him was _very _real and the bleach stains on her clothes where he had made her scrub the kitchen with neat bleach were real also. There had been the circular imprint of finger tips above her elbow. The Professor was all that Mycroft had solemnly warned me about up there on the roof that day. And more.

"Did you really like my picture, Sherlock?"

"Yes. _La Jeune fille a l`agneau_. Painted by Jean Baptiste Greuze in the mid eighteenth century. In 1865, it fetched over one million francs at auction. Today it is worth around £1.2million. That – " I point – "painting _is_ the original, and _not_ the kind of thing to find on the wall of a village baker, however popular his pies may be."

I know Moriarty is enjoying all this immensely, there is truly nothing I want less. But I can`t stop. He claps gleefully.

"Tell me _more,_ tell me more of how you _tracked me down_. Go and wash your face, Moran and fetch Mr Holmes a drink of water. He looks a little – wretched."

My head is pounding and my strength is weakening. I have seven theories as to how this will end. None of them include seeing my son grow to be a man or seeing Molly smile at me _that_ way. But I have to tell. John Watson feels I may show off a little, from time to time. If he could see me now…

"In no particular order – Your mathematical clues; including the _Pascal`s triangle_ pasties (each entry is the sum of the numbers above it). Mr Moran was driving the cart which passed Dr Watson and myself yesterday in the lane. He slipped up by calling you `professor`. Sloppy. You said you hadn`t been inside Tregennis Lodge when we first met, yet the cut at the base of your thumb was almost an exact replica of the cut John Watson acquired when unloading the dishwasher. You were obviously, very familiar with the house. The Facebook account; the stall at Marylebone market to ensure we would come if John didn't take the bait. You had all bases covered."

"Ask."

"What do you want of me? My life, I assume."

The professor stands and walks towards me. I have no free will. I have to allow this. But, he only stops and looks a little sad.

"The Russians have a word for people like you. _Pochemuchka - _ _A person who asks too many questions_. You have to _stop _asking questions, Sherlock. I have lived here for two years. I have been a pie baker for these people and they trust me. Tomorrow I may leave, and they will miss me, but they won` t _suspect _me. I am known. But I am not known. Nothing can be traced. The day after tomorrow, I have the information to start a new business venture to replace the Hermano debacle. We have all the links and the contacts. No-one else knows my business. You are the only thorn. I could kill you now. But what fun would that be? _You_ will be the end of you. I must make my way in the world, Sherlock. You would not allow my brother that privilege. He was…_unstable_, but I am not. I can broker with you. I have collateral. I have your – _love_. The people that you love. _Inadvisable_, Sherlock, but what can I say? You chose the humanity. Your choice. I want a world with you in it. It is more…._colourful_. However, if you ever cross me – it will be another story. Another high place. Another fall. There is nothing more sure. I will take everything you love, and everything you are. Then I will take _you_."

Professor Moriarty takes to his feet and takes my hand. I stand.

"Time to go, Sherlock. You can stand and you can wait; and you can only move when you _feel_ – they love you right…._back_. Not until then, my little killer." He shakes his head and looks regretful. "You really need to _pick a side_, Sherlock."

I stand, sway…waiting for my next…command.

"Pick up." He points to the floor where my jacket fell.

I bend and pick it up. I pick _them_ up. A memory stick, fallen from Moran`s jacket when I hit his disgusting face. I pick it up too. Jim Moriarty`s brother doesn't see me. He has the eyesight of a possum.

I stand. I leave. I walk and walk until I have to stop…


	15. Chapter 15

I am holding my son when she crashes into my room.

"John, John! Come outside – you have to help him…"

And I know instantly who _him_ is, and I also know I will do - _whatever it takes_.

He is standing on the highest part of the stack. It towers above the beach, like a huge archway, sculpted by the sea over millennia, and connected by the narrowest of parapets. Sherlock Holmes stands at the highest point. There is a hundred foot drop beneath him. A fall will kill him. When will he get tired of standing in high places? Soon, _I sodding well hope_.

Where has he been? It is three o`clock in the morning and I am wrenched outside to see him – my friend – in a position that defies logic. He is alone. There is no gun to his head. He stands, looking to the shingle below. Is there a gun to _my_ head? _No red dots_. No red dots.

I race across the lawn towards Molly Hooper. She stands but she can`t go nearer. Five metres away, I see Sherlock, hair whipping across his face; purple shirt billowing from his frame. He stares into the middle distance and the horizon. His hands are clenched into tight fists. How has he got here? Why _are_ we high up? Again.

"Sherlock!"

The wind whips away my words and carries them, hysterically, to God knows where.

"Sherlock! It`s John! Look at me! _Look at me_!" He slowly looks around. He has the eyes of … a man who has seen too much.

"Ah… is that not just a bit too high? Considering your last viewpoint? Get over here, and we can talk about it."

The summer wind whistles across my head and lifts my jacket around me. I look into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes and I can only see – defeat. He is saying goodbye. No mobile. No script. No plan. He is standing on the top of a high place and he doesn't want to come down.

A hand on my arm brings me to the eyes of Molly Hooper, who is standing by me and shaking. I want to shake _her_ and tell her not to love him. It is simply _not_ a good idea. But it`s all too late for that. The wind is whistling around us and Molly Hooper, dressed in a billowing, red dress, looks like a burning flame. We are frozen – we have him in our sights, but he could just step away from the …edge.

Molly looks at me. Really looks. "You know how this feels, John. _Because _you _know_, you have to trust me." Her strength is sudden and amazing.

She steps forward. One time. Then another. She steps again. Sherlock is holding his arms out to his sides and looking down. He is tired. Very tired. I want to touch him, but I stay back and let her do that.

My wife has now joined me and that is the only positive I have.

Mary holds my hand as Molly Hooper steps out, towards Sherlock Holmes. And she is strong, and I _have_ to trust her.

"Sherlock." Molly falls to her knees, because she feels safer there. "Sherlock, step back from there. It's a little bit high and I don't want to pick you up again. _We_ need you_. I_ need you and so does Benedict."

He turns into the wind and looks at her. Her hair whips across her face and he _sees_ her. He doesn't speak, but why do his eyes look so sad? A salty wind buffets about him and Molly Hooper makes an achingly gradual effort to reach out and touch his hand; the hand hanging limply by his side.

A nanosecond and … she _has_ it.

Mary: "Oh God…"

Molly: "Sherlock. Don`t. Just _don`t_."

His grip on her hand intensifies.

"It`s your move and I think I have you in check mate," she says. He falls to his knees and we both go to him. Only difference – Mary is stopping _me_.

Molly holds Sherlock by the shoulders, and she holds him tight.

"Sherlock…get inside. _Get inside_. Stop fucking about. I love you, _I love you so much_, it makes me sick…but stop fucking about and get INSIDE!"

And he looks up into her brown eyes and he holds her arms and he sinks his head into her shoulders… and Mary pulls me away as I see them leave the cliff top to become … human. 

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

The next morning is a beautiful, bright blue and yellow summer`s day. The air and the sea are calm and still. And all the King`s horses and all the King`s men have descended upon Tregennis Lodge.

Mycroft Holmes sits, suited and immaculate as he ever is, in the kitchen, as men in white overalls dust, sample and remove – whatever it is they need to remove. There is very much an `end of the holiday` air about it all.

"I don`t," he sniffs, "expect very much from the house. The Professor will have removed any illuminating detail before you and my brother set up camp here. As predicted, `The Life of Pie` is shuttered up and abandoned. Local agents have found nothing bar a few interesting looking apple pies. I fear we waited too long to strike."

Mary hands him a cup of tea and a pink wafer. He regretfully pushes the wafer away.

"How is Sherlock?" She asks.

"My little brother does have the knack of _bouncing back_ from the brink. He is fine, albeit with a much impeded memory of the events of last night. His dosage of _scolpolomaine_ was three times the amount you all ingested the previous day."

"Oh no." Mary shudders. She can only surmise at the horror Sherlock had endured. "He wasn't suicidal at all, was he?"

Mycroft frowns. "Absolutely not. He was instructed to stand on that spot and he had to do it, until a certain trigger was given. I can only imagine his inner turmoil."

As if on cue, Sherlock`s trigger walks into the kitchen, holding their son. Amusingly, the baby squeaks on seeing his uncle and reaches out for him.

"Oh, very well," succumbs Mycroft, accepting Benedict`s slightly slobbery embrace.

"You, my friend, were just a little bit of awesome last night. Saving Sherlock Holmes is becoming a bit of a habit with you." Mary smiles warmly at Molly Hooper, who looks as fresh as a daisy. Ms Normality; with a side of incredible-ness.

"What can I say? He`s high-maintenance." Molly smiles back as Ben sucks savagely on Mycroft`s expensive silk handkerchief. "Gums sore; teething. Sorry, Mycroft." The latter manages a weak smile.

"I am, once again, very grateful to you Miss H – Molly. I only wish Sherlock had a memory he could share with us, regarding Professor Moriarty."

"Maybe not an actual memory – " Sherlock Holmes walks into the kitchen wearing his black dressing gown and a slightly smug expression. He is holding something small and silver in his hand.

" – but I DO have a memory _stick_."


	16. Chapter 16

John and Molly are probably going to be a little annoyed at me, I think. _Reboot_. Actually, it`s pretty certain they are going to be _furious_. Mycroft too. They keep on trying to save me and I – well, I keep on needing to be saved.

I check my phone and read the text again.

"Meet me at the maze. You have something I need. Your life, and mine, depend on it."

Everyone was at the station when I received it. The explaining would have been tedious and I knew time was of the essence. So I left. And here I am, back at Tregennis Lodge, in the darkened garden, to meet a man who wants me – out of the way. I turn the memory stick around in my hand and shove it deep into my pocket. Leverage.

I remember little of the Professor`s liaison with me the previous night. Just a vague and sinister horror – a foreboding of evil which has stayed with me, and makes me shiver.

Something else, too.

_Love_?

How bizarre. Meeting with a sadistic serial murderer and criminal mastermind leaves me with such diametrically opposed feelings. Snippets of memory swirl around my head, especially just before sleep, and I try to snatch them down and store them. Very tricky. Mycroft tells me this will improve and memories could gradually return. That would be interesting. I would especially like to know what happened to John in the swimming pool that night.

I turn passed the rhododendrons and take the steps down towards the maze entrance. The house is completely unlit and only the full moon gives illumination. An eerie lunar glow to the dark shapes jostling for space in the garden and the distant _ssshhh_ of the surf, dragging across the shingle on the beach below. Then I see the huge Leylandii hedge, rising above my head like a sheer, black, living, cliff face. A torch would have been judicious, had I actually _planned_ tonight`s little venture.

I consult my Mind Palace: `How to travel safely through a maze`. John Watson and myself did appear to have a little trouble getting out. At least, _he_ thinks we did. I just wanted to work it out - to play.

"_But, I do like to PLAY…"_

Follow a wall (either left or right) from the beginning.

Simple mazes can be worked backwards by following just one direction.

For a more complex two directional maze, find a Turning Point, where the maze will change direction. Trace a wall inwards and find a place where there is only one point to cross the intertwining walls. You must pass through this, then work backwards and forwards from the point. You should then discover the root of the maze.

Logic (my favourite) tells me there are a certain number of ways to all intersections, as I travel through the maze. This maze has four, which I counted last time. Just need to count the intersection passed before turning. Use a constant and create an algorithm.

I am suddenly struck by the thought that the Professor probably designed the Tregennis Maze. Of course he did.

But, it isn`t Professor Moriarty who is meeting me here. He always signs his texts "B.M." This one wasn't signed, and the Professor is nothing if not consistent.

The smell of the shrubbery seems more intense at night. Darkness blocks out one sense and intensifies another. A slight breeze ruffles the dark branches and moonlight cannot fully penetrate to the bottom. I feel as if I am wading at waist height through a sea of black treacle – _a treacle of shadows_ – as my lower body is invisible.

Luckily, as I reach the centre of the maze, the hedges become wider apart, and a silvery-white sheen coats the hedge, grass, gravel - and the darkly hunched form of Sebastian Moran.

He turns to face me, and there is enough light to make out a badly bruised eye and split lip. He has the unspoken wince of a man with a fractured rib. Or two. A small part of my brain considers that I may have been involved – in some way – with these injuries. The hatred in his eyes seems to corroborate this.

"I need it back," is all he says.

"I may need to keep it," is the reply he gets.

I deduce immediately that the Professor is unaware of the carelessness of his favourite employee in losing this memory stick. If he wasn't, Moran wouldn't be alive.

"You must be very worried. I, however, feel that one less drug-led organisation in South America would be a good thing." I decide to show him the memory stick, so I pull it out and toss it in the air a few times.

_Playing with fire, Sherlock_? Shut up John.

In the semi-darkness, I see Moran lick his lips and clench his fists. He is wondering when to leap out at me.

Another telegrapher.

"I think you will find I am slightly less pliable than I was last night. This is just you and me – no audience or drug addled brain. Maybe a fairer fight?" I am watching him carefully as I speak.

Moran pulls a gun from his inner pocket, and points it at me.

_Well, what did you expect?_

"Give me the memory stick and I won`t shoot you in the head. Does that sound _fair_?"

I strongly suspect I will be shot in the head, regardless. I stretch out my hand and open my palm, allowing him to see the thing he seeks. Moran lowers his gun as he steps forward, reaching with his other hand towards mine. I swiftly grab his wrist, pulling his arm behind his back and spinning him around. The gun falls to the ground, landing in a crunch of gravel. Moran is a seasoned fighter, however, and he manages to tip me forward, sending me off balance. We both land in the gravel, in a tangle of limbs. My knee connects with his broken ribs which results in a scream of agony piercing the stillness of the night. The after effects of the Devil`s Flower have left me slightly dizzy and my head is spinning as he twists us both around and lands on top of me; pining down my chest and knocking the breath out of me.

"Give…me…the…stick…" Moran`s face is inches away from mine. His brow is drawn down in fury and spittle collects in the corners of his mouth. His fear of his employer must be very great indeed.

I do not have the breath to answer and my head is swimming. On reflection, this situation is not looking too good for me.

Then, bursting out of the night with a crashing and snapping of twigs and branches, comes a force of nature.

A huge figure erupts behind Moran and blocks out the sky. Shoulders like boulders and arms like tree trunks catch him in a deadly and powerful embrace and wrench Moriarty`s right hand man from my chest. And I can breathe again.

The huge man and Moran are locked in a furious struggle; rolling around the centre of the maze like one giant, human tornado. I roll over to where the gun landed and close my hand over its cold metal.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

I fire three shots into the air and the maze wrestlers freeze, mid-assault; heads spinning round to look at me. I look into the roughly hewn face and amber eyes or Dr. Leo Sterndale, and I am far too late to try to stop him as he snaps the neck of Sebastian Moran.

"It was you, on the beach the other day, watching us."

"It was. I followed you. From London."

"I saw no-one."

"I am a born tracker. That is what you should expect to see when _I_ follow you."

We sit opposite each other, by the maze entrance. The body of Moran still lay in the maze and I knew time was limited. Even in the deepest and darkest reaches of the countryside, law enforcement will eventually find you.

"I know you tried to help my beautiful girl, Mr. Holmes, but, in the end, none of us could save her. After the shame of her father, her mind wasn't – level. A scandal of this type was more than she could bear." He places his head in his giant hands; hair standing from his head like a wiry corolla. Even to me, his grief is tangible and raw – an open wound which may never heal. Truthfully, I regret the death of Brenda Mortimer more than any other I have encountered. This kind of loss is so cruel; so pointless, I have no words for Leo Sterndale – except an ache in my throat which will not stop. This – this is _caring_. How does anyone bear it?

"I have watched for days. I know Detective Inspector Lestrade was here, and I know why. You and Dr. Watson visited that Pie Maker – I saw that too. The man I killed – he wasn't _the one_, was he?"

"He was as close as you can be. This man you seek – I seek – is beyond anything you have ever hunted, Dr. Sterndale. He is the very highest degree of dangerous and sly – the jackal with the lion. He has evaded everyone for a very long time. His very existence is hazy. I don`t think we will see him again for quite a while. It would be better for you if you gave up all idea of tracking him further. Brenda would not wish that kind of danger for you."

Leo looked at me and gave a wavering sigh. He clearly hadn`t eaten or slept properly for days and was utterly exhausted.

"You are, perhaps right. I will wait here for the police. My time is over. Nothing is worth anything without my girl."

I sit for around thirty seconds in silence.

"What were your plans?"

"I had intended to bury myself in Western Africa. My conservation work there is only half finished."

"Then, go and do the other half," I said. "I, at least, am not prepared to prevent you." I turned the memory stick around and around in my hand.

"One man has already lost his life for this. It`s best no-one else does. Go, Doctor Sterndale. Go to Africa." I could, by now, see headlights on the road in the distance; headlights and blue flashing ones.

Leo Sterndale and I stood and he held out his hand. "I knew you were the man for the job the moment I met you. Thank you. I am forever in your debt."

He turned, and was almost instantly swallowed up by the night.

And I sit down and wait for the law.


	17. Chapter 17

Mycroft Holmes is - _quite pleased_ - with his brother. The contents of the memory stick have ensured that Moriarty`s new Colombian Cartel never happened. Special Forces stormed in and many valuable arrests were made. Months; perhaps years of work were destroyed and many lives were, doubtless, saved. There was, of course, no sign of Professor Moriarty, `_the Hollow Man_` (as Mycroft likes to call him). All links and threads ended in nothing. Sherlock was right – it would be years before he would hazard such a daring risk of exposure again. It was truly incredible he had shown himself at all. Clearly, reflects Mycroft, _Sherlock_ is Moriarty`s pressure point. He is quite sure their time will come again. In addition, the Professor had also lost his second in command; a very valuable asset. Moran was a man who could have been invaluable to them, with the right _persuasion_. He wasn't quite sure how much of Sherlock`s `maze intruder` story he believes, but he has allowed his brother a little leeway. After all, he is still in receipt of a, seemingly, endless amount of grief from their mother for `letting` Sherlock catch the measles. _Families_. An exasperated sigh escapes Mycroft`s lips. Dogs were infinitely more reliable. He pats Diogenes on his little Chihuahuan head as he reads a text. From Sherlock. How unusual.

"B.M.? SH" It read. _Really, Sherlock, how do you expect me to know that?_ Of course he knew. Mycroft put down Diogenes and texted back.

"A place of healing. MH" Mycroft smiles. Sherlock hates riddles.

But, almost instantly, a text pings back.

"Bartholomew." It said.

**x0x0x0x0x0x00x  
**

Three months later…

Due to the renovations at Bart`s taking longer than expected, John Watson finds himself in Skylab`s subterranean tranquility several times a week to complete collation of his research data. He is quite happy pootling about in Sherlock`s A-list lab so long as any toxins are given a wide berth. He`s had enough of poisons for one – millennia.

Waiting for a centrifuge cycle to finish, John flips open his laptop to put a few finishing touches to his latest blog - `The Case of The Devil`s Flower`. He feels it has a suitably arresting ring to it and typing it has kept him busy, since he was avoiding Facebook these days. He`d just keep it under wraps until the last possible minute in case Sherlock kicks off about his flair for the `dramatic`. Couldn't avoid it being `flowery` this time, though. John smiles to himself at his own joke.

"Self-congratulation is no advertisement, John."

Oh, he`s up then. Early – only 11.30 a.m. John spins around and is – amazed – to see Sherlock Holmes, not only up, but dressed, in his outdoor jacket and holding – a deerstalker. It looks new and – possibly – has something embroidered on one of the peaks. John cranes his neck to see.

"Sherlock, what is written on your _lovely_ hat?"

Sherlock Holmes sulkily casts the offending item onto the granite bench where John is thrilled to read the legend:

`Sherlock`s Hat`, beautifully sewn in blue.

"Oh – goodness…" words temporarily fail him. "Lovely. Blue for a – boy…"

"More excited tourists impeding my progress along Baker Street. Hoping I`ll wear it, `next time your`re on _Crimewatch_`."

John Watson is openly laughing.

"I blame you, John. Your blog, which you are no doubt adding to at this very moment, has done this. I have had pictures taken with four groups of tourists; signed sixteen autographs and had to hold – _a baby_."

John wipes some tears away and tries to get a grip. "What? But you like babies now."

Sherlock catches sight of John`s new blog entry and slams down his laptop lid in disgust.

"I like _my_ baby – and yours is fairly tolerable, but as a species – "

"A _species_ – Sherlock, you have to see that this is the _fun_ part of `being Sherlock Holmes`. The fans; the blogs; the baby holding. It brings in the clients too, and the more clients mean a bigger caseload to choose from."

Apparently, unable to stand the sight of it a moment longer, Sherlock pushed the customised headgear into a drawer, where he searches around for a nicotine patch.

"Ah, yes. A rather over excited elderly lady accosted me on the Strand today, insisting her new lodger was contemplating suicide, since she was horribly disfigured and had been heard groaning in the night."

"Sounds promising."

"Perhaps, until I realise that the lady in question is a fairly famous actress and has had a brow lift and nose job. She is merely recovering from plastic surgery at a secret location, to avoid being discovered by the newspapers and gossip magazines. _Tawdry_, John."

John opens up his lid and decides to change the subject.

"What were you doing in the Strand, anyway? I thought you were in bed." Sherlock had acquired a lab coat and goggles and was adjusting a blowtorch nozzle. Worrying?

"I met Mycroft at Simpson`s for breakfast. An appalling assault on the senses so early in the morning, but he had updated information on Bartholomew Moriarty. It seems the Professor`s handiwork has been identified by local forces in Barcelona. I may have to take a look."

John looks hard at his friend. He contemplates carefully before speaking.

"He WILL kill you next time, if you interfere. You know that."

"He will _try_." Adjusting the flame further, and reaching into the drawer again.

"Look – I know you don't remember much – "

"I remember enough."

John sighs.

"It`s not just about _you_ now, Sherlock."

Within a second, Sherlock Holmes has whipped out the offending deerstalker, thrown it into the lab sink and incinerated it with a serpentine blast of flame. After a soaking from the tap, it sits, a sad pile of charred, tweedy ashes, smoking slightly.

A moment passes.

"Feel better now?"

"Not really." And the man who _cares_, stomps laboriously up the stairs to 221B.

**x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x**

Two days later, John and Mary are sitting on the sofa in Baker Street to watch the final episode of `Leo`s Lions`. Since the suicide of Brenda Mortimer and disappearance of the famed TV doctor, his programme has virtually reached cult status. It hit almost 18 million viewers last Saturday, not including iplayer watches. John hopes that, wherever he is now, Dr. Sterndale has found some peace.

Molly has made tea and Mrs. Hudson has left a very promising looking chocolate ganache. John suspects that, since his measles, she is still trying to `feed up` Sherlock. Sherlock lies across the other armchair, apparently half asleep, which doesn't seem easy, due to the discomfort of the chair and the consistently resonant roar of countless lions.

Through the powerful backdrop of the African savannah and all its photogenic glory, they all hear the doorbell and Mrs. Hudson`s familiar footfall on the stairs. She knocks and peeps in through a crack in the door. She has a smiling, yet conspiratorial expression as she beckons over to Molly.

"What`s the mystery, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock is roused from his stupor. There is a rustling of – what sounds like – cellophane behind the door and the Landlady continues to look pleased, yet furtive.

"Oh, Sherlock, don`t pretend you don`t know. Molly, dear, didn't I tell you he has a poetic soul – a romantic in disguise."

And as she brings her right hand forward and opens the door, a sweet, cloying and sickeningly familiar scent pervades the room. Molly finds herself in receipt of an extravagantly beautiful arrangement of white, trumpet-shaped flowers, wrapped in black and gold cellophane and tied with a white ribbon. A small card can be seen nestling amongst the intricate folds; a card sealed with the image of a bird. A magpie.

Instantly, Sherlock leaps up and John Watson snatches the bouquet of Colombian Devil`s Breath (_brugmansia_) from the hands of the startled landlady, throwing it out of the room and halfway down the stairs. Both men half fall, half jump across them and out of the front door, hoping for a glimpse of the deliverer. As could have been predicted, however; even after running three streets without stopping, they find no-one. London has swallowed up another lead to the Professor. As they return, sweating and empty handed, Mary and Molly meet them on the stairs. They can all hear Mrs. Hudson`s shower running.

Molly holds out the card. Sherlock notes she is wearing gloves. It simply says:

"hasta la próxima vez. B.M."

_Until the next time_.

**EPILOGUE**

John is passing brightly coloured bricks to his son, who is laboriously licking them before posting them, with infinite care, into an empty saucepan. John doesn't question Sholto`s choice of activity, since he is barely ten months old, but he has to admit that babies can be distinctly – odd. Since the game has been going on for a good ten minutes, he is glad to be distracted by his mobile.

_Blimey._

"Er – hello Sherlock…so, erm…we`re doing phone calls now?" Sherlock Holmes _texts_. End of.

"John. I am _incredibly_ bored. What are you doing?"

John looks at the saucepan of saliva-drenched cuboids and just can`t find the words.

"Sorry Sherlock, I`m looking after Sholto – any criminal activity will just have to wait until – ooh, 6pm tonight."

He can hear a faint sound in the background – sort of music – cheerful music. Much _too_ cheerful.

"Are you listening to _Katy Perry_, Sherlock? Or _One Direction_, maybe?"

A groan escapes from the mobile. "God, I am _dying_. You have _no idea_." Considering the events over the past few months, John feels himself extremely qualified to know about Sherlock Holmes dying. It`s definitely more common than … this phone call.

"No case, then?"

A sigh. "No, if only that were true. I am watching a _film_. With Benedict."

Oh, goodness.

"So, he`s tired of the periodic table flash cards then? Fancy." John fancies he can _hear_ Sherlock roll his eyes. He knows for a fact that Molly has actually hidden them.

Sherlock continues.

"It`s about a father…"

"Ok."

"Who`s wife is brutally murdered…"

What?

"…by a serial killer; and his son is left physically disabled."

"Sherlock, I do – "

"In a twisted turn of events, his son is kidnapped and the father has to track and chase the kidnapper for thousands of miles, with only the help of a mentally disabled friend."

All sorts of horrendous scenarios are running through the mind palace of John Watson – as if showing case photographs to young Archie hadn`t been bad enough…

"What the hell - you just can`t – what is it called?"

With a thudding heart, he hears rustling whilst Sherlock finds the DVD case.

"_Finding Nemo_," he reports.

**THE END**


End file.
